Some philosophers think that what we are is the sum of our memories. I’ve searched my brain for the earliest memory: I see the last rays of sunlight coming through the windows with just enough light to fill the gloomy room abandoned by love. It is quiet and cold, but it doesn’t make a difference because it feels like another day. There’s so much coldness in this quietness.
As the sun goes down, there’s enough light to still do some reading. But the lamp is turned on now in the corner of the room shedding light on a woman’s face. It feels warmer this way. The woman is reading. She doesn’t like the sunset. Her face is serious. With those soft features you would expect a smile, but there’s no smile. The frown is forced on her face. The woman is my mom. She’s in pain. You can trace the emotional struggle and longing for love around her whole being. But what do I know, five-year old girl sitting on the sofa playing with her doll. I wonder why does she need the light when there’s enough sun in the room. Why isn’t she smiling? It’s already six and my father is about to come from work. I haven’t seen him for a few days and I still don’t know why.
My mom turns off the light and leaves the room. Maybe she
“Why did you open that door? What did I tell you about strangers?”
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