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Fifty-Five

I can’t hear her voice in my head any more. I can barely picture her face and if it wasn’t for the picture I have of her, all of the memories of her would be blurred.

I told myself I could never do what she did, I could never hurt my mother like that. I couldn’t rip the hearts of those who loved me into terrible pieces, but with enough time passing and the memories starting to fade, I wonder how long it would take.

How long would it take for my sisters to forget my voice, my face? How long would it take for the tears to stop flowing at my memory and how long would it be before no one could remember what it felt like to hold me in their arms?

When the breeze goes through your hair, how long would it take to not think of it as me passing by?

My body aches at this young age and I tell them I think I’m dying. They laugh and shake their heads but they don’t realize it’s true. They don’t realize that when I say I’m planning on 55, it’s a hope that I even make it that far.

I told myself I could never do that to my mother – it sounds less and less true the more that young face fades from my head.

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