51

51. DISTANT ORIGINS.

~DELMUNDO

Faintly, I could still remember her laughter, the way she tickled me anytime she read me bedtime stories. I could still recollect the early morning breakfasts, the cereal and omelets.

Like yesterday, I could still remember that morning she had left. I was still eating my cereal when she told me she was going to get some groceries. Seconds turned to minutes, and the minutes turned to hours.

My five- year- old brain suspected no foul play. My mother told me she was going to the mall and like every child I believed her. What choice did I have, she was my mother, and if I did not believe her, who would?

Months had passed into years and I was still in denial, hoping that one day she would walk into the home she left with groceries in her hands with her lovely smile.

Now, I had no idea what she looked like or even her name. My father took that memory from me through psychological torture. He would berate me for making my mother leave and I beli