Some philosophers believe that what we are is the sum of our memories. I've searched my brain for the earliest memory, and I can see the last rays of sunlight coming through the windows with just enough light to fill the gloomy room abandoned by love. It is quiet and cold, but it doesn't make a difference because it feels like another day. There's so much coldness in this quietness.
As the sun goes down, there's enough light to still do some reading. But the lamp is turned on now in the corner of the room shedding light on a woman's face. It feels warmer this way. The woman is reading. She doesn't like the sunset. Her face is serious. With those soft features you would expect a smile, but there's no smile. The frown is forced on her face. The woman is my mom. She's in pain. You can trace the emotional struggle and longing for love around her whole being. But what do I know, five-year-old girl sitting on the sofa playing with her doll. I wonder why does she need the light when there's enough sun in the room. Why isn't she smiling? It's already six and my father is about to come from work. I haven't seen him for a few days and I still don't know why. .
My mom turns off the light and leaves the room. Maybe she went to the kitchen, maybe to the bathroom, I don't know. But it doesn't matter because my father is coming home. I hear the bell ring. Forgetting what my mom told me about not letting strangers in, I run to the door and open it wide with an excitement and hope. That is not my father. It is a man. He is big and tall. He is wearing long, black wool coat. He looks sharp and serious. But those gloves. Why is he wearing black gloves? It wasn't that cold. He asked for a name and if this person lives there and as I say no he's standing there staring at me and not walking away. All of a sudden, I hear my mom's voice in the background. His shoulder jumps. As my mom runs to the door, I wonder what does she want.
