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.