“That’s why you don’t have a mudda!”
I hurled a chair straight in the direction of the voice; just in case my fist couldn’t meet her face fast enough. Swinging my arms, I lunged my 12-year-old body at a girl of the same age thrashing her body with blows.
I had a mother. I saw her in pictures.
She visited me when I was six, but I sat in silence as she spoke to my father. I was unsure what girls said to their mothers. At first, I took her presence to mean that she loved me, and she was coming back for me.
But my mother left.
I stared at the pictures in the trash the next day. My mom was more beautiful than what the pictures could display. She had brown, sun-kissed skin, bright, brown eyes and long, thick hair.
I kept a picture in my mind.
Two years later, I saw her face again. I compared her to Jasmine from the Aladdin because she was the most beautiful character I knew at the time, and no one was more beautiful than my mother.
She came to see me.
“I won’t leave without spending time with you,” she said under the surveillance of one of my teachers.
But my grandmother didn’t allow it. She hid me at a relative’s house until my mom took her flight back home.
I cried every night for my lost mother. Then one day she rescued me bringing me back with her to the “States.”
She kept rescuing me; saving me from my mistakes. But I still wasn’t sure that she loved me.
I was still the hurt, little girl, who didn’t know what girls said to their mothers, but she told me she loved me. Then she was lost again.
I don’t have a mother. I just see her in the pictures etched in my mind.
R.I. P Mom (March 6, 1962- May 29, 2010)