Novel & Cerita When Mama Told Me When I Was Young

She put down her fork, looked up at Grandma, and asked, “Grandma, what was Mama’s favorite memory when she was a little girl?” The room became quiet. Even those who had ignored us turned their heads. Grandma held her glass. And smiled slowly. “She loved climbing the apple tree in the garden,” Grandma said. “She’d go up there whenever she was upset, refusing to come down until I promised not to scold her." She paused. "One time , she stayed up there for hours. The whole house was searching for her, until a friend of her's saw her legs swinging from the branches.” Laugh filled the table.

Matthew cheered and grabbed the money before he ran off. No one mentioned me at all. It was as if I never existed. My mother patted her pocket and frowned. “I feel like I have forgotten something…” At the same time, my grandmother walked out of the kitchen holding a dish. She placed it on the dining table. “Oh right, where’s Myra? “Darren should’ve already picked her up by now. Both of you are too careless. How can you forget your child at a rest stop?” It was then that my mother slapped her forehead as she finally remembered me.

About the document on my laptop titled What I Know. "I'm handling it," I said. Mama did not look reassured. Good. She shouldn't be.

she hissed, baring her teeth at me. I tried to stay calm. “I fell off my bike when I was nine, Mama. Remember? I cut my knee open and had to walk four blocks back home. My sock was so full of blood I had to dump my shoe out. You gave me a Popsicle. Grape. Only, I was crying so hard, I dropped the Popsicle into the tub. You made me rinse it off and eat it anyway. Remember that?” “Maybe it is you. What do you want? Here to cut my rations? Take my privileges?”

I say, unable to hold my tears. Mama gathers me into her arms and starts humming. It’s a tune that she has hummed to me every time that I have been sick. I relax in her embrace as she starts to gently run her hands through my hair. “Have I ever told you how thankful I am to have you, my dearest darling?” Mama whispers. I barely shake my head. “Well, you’re a miracle. I was told that I was never going to have another baby after Talon was born.”

Saph said, getting mine and Emmy’s attention. I tilted my head up, trying to remember what Mama told us. It was so long ago. I’m surprised Saph remembers. She was 6 when Mama died, Emmy was 7, and I was 9. Amy was 4, but says she still has a few small memories of Mama. Pearl, being the youngest, was 3 and doesn’t remember Mama at all. We all make it a point to share everything we remember about Mama with her. “I’m not sure I remember what she said to us, Saph.” Emmy admitted, looking disappointed in herself for forgetting a memory of our mother.

The world around us seemed to come alive, as if it recognized the significance of our meeting. As we strolled through the meadow, my mother began to speak. Her voice was like a gentle melody, soothing and comforting. She told me stories of her own life, of the adventures she had embarked upon, the obstacles she had overcome, and the love she had experienced. Her words painted vivid pictures in my mind, transporting me to different places and times.

"It's too late. Even if you dug your heart out for me right now, I wouldn't want it." The moment I said those words, the windproof everlasting lamp suddenly died out, leaving my mother in silent darkness. She could feel how much disgust my soul felt for her and she wailed in great despair, eventually passing out right in front of my tombstone.

When the scene ended, I remembered the other scene in which I laughed so hard. ‘She wishes she was that awesome…’ Trailed the voice in my head with a wicked tone laced in it. ‘I told you to shut up!’ I ordered, and it stopped. “Okay, Mamá, now why did I need to see that again?” I complained. “Listen, John…” Mamá trailed, fidgeting with her hands. “I believed I had one more year before that happened, so I haven’t thought of how I’d break the news to you.” She took my hands in her own and stared into my eyes.

It wasn't a response triggered by a directive, but something that belonged to me, alive and beating. It was as though a crack had formed in solid ice, and gradually, a faint warmth seeped through the opening. These days continued to follow one after the other. They stopped issuing casual commands to me, yet without a command, I simply sat in place from sunrise to sunset, like a piece of machinery in standby mode. Mamma would sit by my side every day and tell me stories from when I was little. She would tell me how, at three, I first called her "Mamma" and how she had laughed in delight, spinning me in her arms several times, while Papa, standing nearby, told her to stop because it made his h