The heat pouring on my skin as my bare feet walk against the rough rocky road. “How much longer?!” My little redhead sister says. Her red hair comes from the genes of my mother but I and my dad have silky brown hair that looks like melted chocolate rolling down your back. “Almost,” I tug on her hand as I see she is falling behind “a mile more.” She sighs as I wish I could but dad says to stay strong around my sister just as he and my mom did when I was 7. But now I’m older and I don’t get the privilege of my mother and fathers’ strokes on my gentle heart. Slowly, I start to see the love for my sister slipping away too. “Ow!” My sister says in a screechy voice. I already know what to do so I take the cloth from my belt and push off the rock that has pierced into her foot. There is a bit of blood, but nothing serious so I wrap the cloth around her little toes and push her forward as we continue walking. We are now headed to our mother and father who live down in the rocky part of the village. The village is pretty big but is dark and grey and has no beauty. It used to have street lights that would pave a path for any creature until it reached the bright white tall house that is my home. My mother used to climb up the street lights and would place me on top of it. It would still be hot from the flame that was recently put out. “You are the bird Frina,” My mother used to say “all you need to do is remember you can fly.” I lights are now gone from the rocky road and all that is left is its burning memories. “Finally!” My sister’s cry of relief is said because of the bruised and broken structure that lies ahead. She runs up the porch's creaky dirty wood as the rails help her stay balanced from the heavy bags under her eyes. I don’t want to go into the house because my blood is still burning, so I go to the backyard to feed the goat. Its short white fur lowers my temper and I decide to go into the house. My mother brings in the bags that had made harsh red lines on my shoulders. Eggs, scallion, bacon, chicken, lettuce, and mayo fill them. “Thank you.” She says and plants a kiss atop my head. I don’t want to show her that I forgive her so I don’t smile, but my cheek turns a brilliant pink. I will not forgive my mother and father for the harsh responsibilities that they put me through and are starting to put my sister through. I do not forgive them for forgetting all the memories, the memories that push me to wake up every morning. I will not forgive them for not letting me have a childhood. Not letting me have a joyful life. Later at dusk when orange, yellow, and white layers are stacked atop each other blending with the sky my mother tells me to clean the table and goes upstairs as she always does, but this time I stop her. “You don’t remember do you.” I ask without looking up from the plate as I push the leftovers from side to side with my fork. Red veins start to wrap around my eyes and my eyelids are holding back tears. “August 7th, 2017. The lights.” I walk toward the sink as my mom walks slowly down the steps. She sits in the velvet cushioned dining table chair and says “Of course I do.” She does not look at me but is staring out the window. I take a moment to look wondering what she was looking at. “Then why don’t you care, why did you run out of love for us.” My mother looks up for a moment first looking upset and then sad. Winkles on her forehead start to show and tears roll down her cheek. Unlike me, she did not have to practice hiding emotion for 13 years, so I can see the depression in her eyes. She looks down at the table watching her fingers fidget. “I don’t want you to love me,” I’m confused but don’t say anything “I loved my mother.” I understand what she was referencing now. When my mother was 7 her mother died from a sickness. She was left in an orphanage and came to her mother’s grave every day, giving her cookies and flowers (which I never understood because the woman was only bones and soil). My mother never let go of the grief, she loved her mother too much. The sickness that my grandmother died of runs in the family. There is a 75% chance my mother will get it too. “Well you know I could lose everyone!” I start to yell now. “I could lose dad and Ruth too! But that doesn’t mean I cut them off and let them suffer!” My mother’s tears are dripping on the mats but she sits there as her face goes emotionless. “I don’t want the same for you.” There is nothing left to say and my throat is breaking so I go up the bed. My head rests on the pillow, which soothes the headache rattling my brain. I try to forget the conversation I and my mother had because the task she is asking me to do is impossible. I cannot stop loving my mother. No matter the cracks in her skin, the scars on her arms, nor how deep the knife is pushed into her heart. She is my mother. She is the one that gave me the confidence to fly, the one that taught me how to ride a bike, the one that ripped off every band-aid, she is my superhero. If she drops dead tomorrow I will still love her. I turn to the other side of the bed thinking I will be more comfortable, but I cannot get the question that is holding my eyes open to leave me. Will she come back to me? Or did is the mother I know truly gone forever? Later that night as I watch the moon glimmer in the window, I feel the warmth of someone. The warmth of a mother. She lies down next to me with her chin on the top of the head and her arm wrapped around my belly. She moves my braid so that it’s not in her face, and covers us in the sheets. My question is answered. I do what my daddy says to do every night and pray. But what more can I ask for. Instead, I mumble under my breath not to awake my sister, “Thanks god. Thanks, an awful lot.” Then I go to sleep hoping this night would last forever.