She died when I was eight or nine. I can see her face clearly in front of me. As if she's waiting. I walk through each room in her flat. The huge square table in the dining room. The silver box we saved money in for trips, on the tiled mantlepiece. The yellow formica fronted cabinet in the kitchen. The paraffin lamp in the bathroom. The living room, hung with Kilim, woven tapestries, the piano in the corner, the big bay window overlooking the road.
Over forty years, and I can still walk through each room, and see her standing there. Still see her face. Strong. Proud. Kind.