Your mother calls you down to dinner, she's made her famous lasagne. Well, it's famous to you.
As you walk down the stairs, you feel the warmth of the kitchen and your mother's love embrace you. Your family are sitting at the table waiting for you. Mother, wearing a blue checked blouse and jeans, complete with an apron. You're lucky, you think, as you see how beautiful she is, the image of you. Her dark curls are scooped up into an untidy bun, and gleaming blue eyes gaze at you from her pale, flawless face where her sweetheart lips are curved into a smile. Your dad is seated next to her, distinguished with his ash blonde hair and moustache, tinged with grey at the corners, like ash at the edge of a burning picture. His kind and crinkled brown eyes smile at you. Your little sister Jennette is seated with him, her caramel hair swinging in a straight line near her shoulders, and her crisp blue eyes blink innocently. Your mother pats the chair next to her.
"Come on Esme, it'll get cold; we've been waiting for you."
You sit and enjoy your meal.