Clara
The road to my mother's house always has something that stirs me inside.
Maybe it's because every curve, every tree on the road, every small shop that appears on the side of the road reminds me of my father. He drove around here with a calmness that seemed impossible to alter. He always had a story to tell or a comment on how the town had changed over the years.
Today I drive alone. And yet, at times, I feel as if his voice could still appear at any moment.
When I finally get home, the garden is exactly the same as it always was. Bougainvillea climbs up the white wall and the old lemon tree is still laden with fruit.
I park the car in front of the gate and get out with a small bag in my hand, I don't knock. I never knock.
I just walk in.
"Mom?" I call from the hall.
The aroma
