They came in their droves.

In the early morning light we watch as they march across grass, soaked with dew.

Inside, tired eyes try focusing on the procession as it moves towards them swiftly.

A cavalcade of skirts and lipstick, children under feet and Tupperware of every shape and size.

Behind them a sweet, sticky motley waft of perfume floats.

An army of beautiful and strong hands.

In the kitchen, as the sun now makes the darkest corners of the house bright.

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Emma BrookerComment