The thought of my mother hit me hard this morning. As I was cleaning my room, I found an old tape she had recorded, and on it, she was teaching my brother how to spell. I listened, transfixed, suddenly realizing how foreign she was to me. Her smiling face hangs silently in my bedroom, I have 13 years of carefully archived memories-- and yet, her voice... it's her voice that sends a shiver up my spine. The voice that taught me to love people, the voice that sang me to sleep, the voice that guided me through adolescence-- it's now as unrecognizable as the face that stares back at me in the mirror. It's the only concrete recording of her existence... and it terrifies me.