My Memory In My Life

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The oldest memory I have is of the blurry figure of my mother as she cradles me close to her chest and sings me a lullaby that is off key. This off-key lullaby is my oldest and most fond memory. A memory that fills me with warmth when I think of it. Those moments have since ceased as I have grown up. My mother no longer holds me to her chest and sings me to sleep. Most of the time she is not home, but far away and tapping at her keyboard as she works endlessly to provide for us. This has been a fact since I was three years old. When she first started traveling to different cities, states, and countries for work, I was wracked with intense feelings of loss for my mother who, even though I knew would be back within a week, was taken from me by an outside force. I would stand by a window in my silent house and watch as her car left our similarly quiet neighborhood. These feelings of loss have become dull with the years of exposure. My mother used to ask me every so often, “Grace, do you feel I’m leaving you too much?”
I was young at the time and did not fully understand what she asked so I would reply back in the high-pitched voice that comes with an eight-year-old girl, “No Mommy, you’re not leaving me!” As I grew older, I realized how I was wrong when I answered her all those years ago. She does leave a lot, but that is to earn a salary that my family of four can live off of comfortably. I do live with my brother and father, but they cannot provide the same bond that comes

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