All this time, I said I was writing something, and you’ve all been very good in believing me. Now for some proof. 😀
Whenever he thinks I’m asleep, Dad takes this picture of my mother that used to hang on our wall out of the truck’s glove compartment and just stares as it, sadly. Tonight was one of those nights when he actually whispers to it. I can’t tell what he’s saying … and I can’t imagine how she’d respond if she were here.
You see, she died when I was two. I can barely remember the sound of her voice. I like to think I can remember her smiling at me, but I think it’s just the picture Dad keeps of her. In all of my “memories” of her, she’s always wearing that light and airy sundress from the photo.
Mom was petite with straight-as-sticks blond hair, and eyes that I think were green. It’s hard to tell when all you’ve got is a black and white picture. Aside from my height, I’m glad I don’t take after her; if I did, I’m afraid Dad would look at me in the same sad way he looks at her photograph.
He never did tell me how she died. I suppose he’s trying to protect me from something. What you don’t know doesn’t hurt you, they say.
I don’t think that’s true. Curiosity burns … and burns hurt something awful.