Short Stories

Rememberance

My mother always said that the past is just a collection of things not yet forgotten, yet not entirely remembered. Of course, I didn't know exactly what that meant at the time. Now I understand. I remember her, her auburn hair and green eyes which always seemed to smile. I remember the way she used to tell stories, making voices for all of the characters and using her hands for emphasis. I remember the way that she used to speak, always softly, unless we were playing. But what I don't remember is her face. Sure, I remember her eyes and her smile, but I could be talking about anyone.
It was three years ago that she passed away, and my dad has been trying hard ever since. But ever since her death, her face, her body, it's all a blur. We didn't have any photos, we weren't wealthy enough to have a camera. In my mind, I see a beautiful person, but her face is gone. It seems as if it is changing, morphing from one face to the next in only a second. It's like I can't place what she used to look like, now that she's gone. That's what scares me. Ask me my fears. The dark? No. Being alone? No.
Not being able to remember your own mother?
Jackpot.
I lie awake at night thinking about who she used to be. I would ask my dad, but even after three years he is a bit unsteady. I just wish there was someone I could talk to. My mother was a wonderful person, so why can't I remember her? I may never know. Maybe it's been too long? Maybe I just didn't pay attention to her enough? I just remember her voice the most clearly. Her last, dying words as her pale, fragile hand took mine.
"Don't forget."
I'm sorry mom.