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My eyes fluttered open when my dream ended.

                I could feel the soft fabric of my blanket covering me, the fluffiness of my head pillow indulging me, and the cold temperature of the room that was just about right. I focused my vision and I stared at the white ceiling above, then at the room I was in. The room was illuminated by rays of sunlight that seeped from the curtain-closed window. There was a desk and a chair in front of the bed, a mediocre closet right beside it, two brown wooden doors and a small round clock right above one of them.

                This was my bedroom, I recalled.

                I felt content with my position on the bed that I barely moved for several minutes. I glanced at the clock to see that it was only eight in the morning. I closed my eyes again and tried to remember the dream I just had.

Minutes passed by. I furrowed my eyebrows while my eyes remained shut.

                I couldn’t remember.

                Dreams always come and go, I thought. They were always so vivid and clear in my slumber, yet so untouchable and lost when I was awake.

I wondered. Could memories be just as similar as dreams?

I propped up my elbows and sat up on the bed. Now that I wasn’t laying down, I realized there were pictures hung up on the walls. I looked around to see almost every part of my bedroom covered in photos. Curiosity built up inside of me. When did I put up those pictures? I pondered.

I swung my legs to the edge of the bed and my feet touched the ceramic floor. As I was just about to stand to examine the pictures, a tiny knock resounded throughout my bedroom. My eyes went to the door as it was clicked open.

A woman, in her late thirties, strolled into my room with a small smile. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, and she was wearing a floral patterned dress. Her forehead had barely visible creases. She walked the short distance from the door to the bed. She sat beside me.

“Morning, mom.” The woman softly said.

I blinked for a second. “Morning! Uh,” My mind went blank. I opened my mouth to utter her name but I was dumbfounded. I could see the woman’s face start to fall. “Uh,” I stuttered. I knew her face. I knew her voice. She was . . . She was . . .

Recognition suddenly struck me. She was my daughter. Lois.

I felt a great amount of relief when I managed to mutter her name. “Lois.”

Lois let out a sigh as if she felt much more glad than I was.

“I’ve made breakfast.” Lois said as she gently took hold of my wrist and stood up. I followed her gesture. “Let’s go.” She continued.

We went to the dining room with Lois’ hand holding me firmly. I didn’t get to think why she would need to guide me just to eat breakfast in my own house. As I sat on the chair Lois told me to, I saw a plate of food in front of me.

“You need to eat. I’ll be washing the dishes right there.” Lois’ pointed to the sink in front of me, across the table. I nodded absently, not really paying attention. I didn’t even notice when she left me.

The food in front of me was far more interesting. There were two sunny side-up eggs, two bacons and a brown rectangular food that I had never seen before. I tried touching it with my right hand. It was rough on the surface but soft in the inside when I pressed my finger into it. It was a little slimy with oil but it smelled amazing.

I was giddy. “Honey, what is this magnific-“ I slurred a bit. “-magnificent food?!” I asked, like a child discovering something new.

Lois turned back from the dishes she was washing and her eyes trailed to the finger I was still sticking into the food. She turned back to the sink to close the tap water and she quickly dried her hands with a hand towel. She took a piece of paper tissue from the table.

“That’s a hash brown, mom.” Lois said as she walked over to me with the tissue in hand. She pulled my hand slowly from the food and wiped my finger delicately. “It’s made from potato.”

“I’ve never tasted one before!” I was excited to try something I had never eaten before. “Is it good?”

Lois looked at me with love but I didn’t get to see the pain in her eyes. “This is your favorite food.” She mumbled.

I didn’t catch Lois’ words so I immediately dug into my breakfast. The hash brown was extremely delicious. I was so happy. Lois went back to her task of washing the dirty dishes with a depressing mood that I didn’t notice.

I finished my meal in just a matter of minutes. I decided to go to my bathroom before washing my plate, so I pushed my chair back and my legs brought me up to a stand. I headed towards the bathroom inside my room.

As I pushed open my bedroom door, I saw a variety of pictures decorating the walls, pictures I didn’t remember putting up. My eyes trailed to my desk and I saw a thick book placed on its hard wood. I strolled over and opened the book. There were more pictures. There were dates. There were descriptions.

                “What is this?” I asked myself out loud.

                I didn’t hear Lois come in and I didn’t realize she was behind me until she answered my question. “It’s called an album.” I turned to look at her as she stepped forward with her eyes full of nostalgia. “An album is where you keep memories.”

                My eyes darted back down to the pictures. There was one where Lois was wearing a wedding dress with a man. Jason. I remembered, my son-in-law. I turned the album back a few pages and saw one showing Lois in her graduation gown. I didn’t remember that one.

                “I can’t remember you graduating.” I said honestly.

                Lois smiled and placed her hand gently on top of mine. “It’s okay.” She whispered.

                We stood there for several minutes, enjoying each other’s presence. I kept looking at the picture of Lois on her graduation day, trying hard to remember such a memorable event. I searched all corners of my mind. I went through all my memories. I searched and searched and searched. But I couldn’t find a memory of her grinning from ear to ear while throwing her graduation cap.

                “I love you so, so much, mom.” Lois said suddenly with pain in her voice.

                I turned towards Lois slowly, my hand slipping out of hers. I smiled back at her. Her pain in her voice was lost to me. “You know I love you too. So does Cole.” I said to her.

                Lois jerked her head from facing the album to face me immediately. Her forehead creased in confusion. “Who’s . . . Who is Cole?” She asked, unsure.

                I tilted my head slightly. How could Lois not know her own son?

“Your son.” I said a matter-of-factly.

                Lois bit her lip at my response. She casted her eyes downwards. “We don’t have a son.” Her voice quivered. I gaped, not quite getting what she said. She then walked out as if to calm herself outside and away from me.

I wondered what I did wrong.

                I sat on the chair, album forgotten. I crossed my arms on the desk and rested my head on them. I closed my eyes. I let sleep take me away.

                I still wondered what I did wrong.

                I didn’t know how long time passed by, but I woke up to a small knock from the door.

                I opened my bedroom door to see a woman who seemed to be in her late thirties, her hair tied up in a bun messily. She was wearing what looked like a comfortable dress, with floral patterns covering every inch of the fabric. Barely visible creases decorated her forehead. I scavenged my mind and memories for recognition of who she was. I couldn’t find anyone I knew who had her face.

                At the same time the woman said “Mum- “, I asked, “Who are you?”

                There was silence. The woman was shell-shocked for a moment, as if to let the truth sink in, before she smiled sadly. She looked at me lovingly but I was curious on why there were tears welling up in her eyes.

                “I’m your daughter,” The woman sobbed. A tear slid down one of her cheeks even with the smile gracing her lips. I felt no urge to wipe it. Her face and voice were unfamiliar.

                “Lois.” She finished chokingly.

                The name was foreign to me.

Tags: ecom18-2

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