I have a memory that is almost like a dream: the yellow and brown dried leaves falling from the Camachile tree, piling like a soft blanket against the solid ground. A piece of knitted cloths lies in the shade of the tree. The November sun shining but the breeze is cool – cool enough for me and my sisters to run and bathe in the glory of the calmed golden sun.
And then there she is – my Mom. She’s walking towards us, holding a plate of fresh bread. She stops to watch us, a depiction of serenity flashes across her young beautiful face. I ran to her and hug her around the waist as I feel my sisters slamming on us to join our little moment. Laughters filled my ears – from my Mom, from my sisters, from me.
“Papa’s here!”, my oldest sister shrieked and ran with excitement. I turn around to see him picking my sister and putting her on his shoulders. They walk towards the tree and sit on the cloth. I pull my Mom to join them.
All afternoon, we play and eat and sing and tell stories and laugh and laugh. So many laughter living inside us. Papa is happy. Mom is happy. My sisters are happy.
And me? I have never been this happy.
I keep that memory somewhere inside me – where it’s safe. I take it out and look at it when I need to. As if it were a photograph.