(Almost) Sweet Memories.

The kitchen was barely lit. The sun started peaking over the trees in my backyard and the first brave rays of sun broke through the curtains, bathing the furniture in warm gold. My eyes were fixed on the numbers slowly descending on the display of my phone, glowing in thin, red numbers: 10 minutes and 22 seconds.

The scent of the sweet, fruity aroma floated gently in the air, turning the unforgiving bite of December into a mixture of sugary warmth and coziness.

I wrapped the blanket tightly around my shoulders and sighed. The numbers before my eyes distorted, almost melting. My thoughts, intrusive and unwanted, unearthed the memories that had once been shoved behind insurmountable barriers. The recollections of how I had fled in search of a new life; a hoped-for freedom that watched more carefully was no longer glamorous and shining but a mirror displaying on its shadowy surface the scars of time. An oversold product that performed poorly.

They breached through like a rogue wave, and just like it, they left behind a sense of loss and wreckage.

As a young woman, I called it reasonable, and she called it rebellion. As the time went by, and the days became months and the months became years, as the clothes grew smaller and the house emptier, I called it pride, and she called it stubbornness. By the time I celebrated my thirties, I called it remorse, stupidity, and longing. I had no sense of knowledge of how she would’ve called it, but a voice in the back of my head, right where I pushed those pestering memories, said that maybe she would’ve agreed with me.

In my house, the silence could only grow louder and that empty space—that I had pursued until I had nothing but emptiness in my hands—incessantly, perpetually, agonizingly colder.

"Teenagers often assert their independence by challenging authority and rebelling against their parents." I recalled encountering those words, phrased in many different ways and in various tones, in the paper, online, headlining studies of various nature, and on the television. Journalists and scholars laid scientific terms on the table to hide, behind such complicated—yet vulnerable—words, a very simple—and sad—truth: how common it was to have no appreciation for things until you have lost them.

I remembered boarding that plane, with a luggage stuffed with handful of clothes and mismatched socks, the money I had struggled to save for the occasion, and my dreams, that I hopelessly witnessed falter and shatter in million pieces—as a flame that burned fiercely for the sole purpose of dying out and never to shine again; all that remains is the memory of it, the smoke running through my fingers and the stench of burning.

I realised it slowly.

Initially, as the Christmases passed by, I found myself desperately chasing after the things that made my childhood magical. I began painting, just as my father used to do; cooking the dishes that my mother was so proud of; listening to the music my mother played in the house while cleaning. As I studied my big, hollow house, or a decoration, or a dress, I paused—more times than I cared to admit—wondering if they would’ve liked it. I frequently asked myself if my sister Jane would have stolen my favourite dress like she used to do when we were younger. It used to infuriate me to the point where we wouldn’t speak for days, but later in years, as I stared at the empty fireplace, where I longed to place family photographs, I was seized by a sense of longing so profound to leave me breathless. The air felt unreachable, like I had forgotten how to breathe properly. The world paled, as if there was a dusty coat gathering on my eyes.

The phone never rang. The doormat with only my footprints on it. Even my dining room felt too big and useless, other than for the purpose of eating the handful of meals I managed to cook. I hid in the storage room the pristine and unused extra chairs. I had learned to lose my smile at the mall, at the park, at the restaurants, when the families gathered, when they laughed, or simply lived together.

That time, it was pie—stupid, deformed, over-sweetened apple pie.

As my latest self-inflicted pain, the night before I had picked the ingredients from the shelves of the supermarket without giving any thoughts on what to do with them, I found myself with my table crowded in ingredients that once, at my parents' house, filled my stomach with a delightful tightness.

The timer kept ticking away.

I closed my eyes tightly to avoid shedding the tears that threatened to fall down my cheeks and inhaled deeply.

"I managed to find everything on our list!" My Mom strolled into the kitchen, her voice, charged with happiness, passed through the wide smile on her face. Some persistent snowflakes sprinkled her chocolate hair, and the cold painted her cheeks a bright shade of pink.

 “You’ve managed to empty all the food supplies of the town, dear,” my dad remarked, casting me a sly glance from the corner of his eyes. His teasing was evident, but Mom was too cheerful to care. She was, indeed, clutching a worrisome number of bags, of various shapes and colours, tightly around her arms and in her hands.

I buried a laugh deep inside of me, covering the trembling of my lips by stuffing my mouth with another forkful of pie. I sighed in adoration, savouring the perfect blend of fruit, cinnamon, and sweetness.

“You should have seen her, Dad,” Jane trailed behind her, carrying herself a handful of bags. She dropped them on the table with a groan, causing cans of tomato sauce and soups to roll out of the bags as if they were eager to run back to the store. I quickly snatched my plate of pie, safeguarding it from getting crushed under the weight of the crazed Christmas grocery shopping.

 “Mom almost wrestled Mrs. Rowland to the ground,” Jane added, bending her blond head skyward with a laugh.

“She’s seventy!” I laughed.

My mom pointed a finger at me. “Never underestimate the power of a mother on a holiday mission,” she said, her mischievous grin growing. “You know how I get during the holidays.”

“Murderous?” My father coughed in his fist.

“I heard that!” She crossed her arms in mock outrage, but a small grin curled the corners of her lips, breaking her faux-offended demeanour.

My father kissed her cheek, wearing a smile of his own. “I never said it was a bad thing, darling.”

Jane and I playfully mimicked sounds of revulsion. “Gross!” I screamed, covering with a hand Jane’s eyes, and hiding her in my chest. The sound of her laugh echoed in the kitchen.

A disturbingly loud ringtone abruptly yanked me away from the cobwebs of thoughts.

I was back in my house, enveloped in my blanket as tightly as I could. The world grew colder once more, losing all its colours and the sparks of joy—it was as if, with the snap of fingers, the magician had unveiled the lies behind his greatest trick.

The phone continued to ring in deafening and uncomfortable tones, signalling that the pie was ready. I placed it on the table and sat before it.

It was a sad parody of my past, and the shame washed over me. I shrank within my own walls, the house seeming to expand infinitely around me, making me feel small and insignificant. I was ashamed of the table that was only occupied on one side; of the thunderous silence that not even the delightful Christmas song could conquer.

I stretched my lips into a smile, but it quivered, retreating inward as if to take back that pathetic attempt at happiness before crumbling completely.

Without giving me the time to change my mind, I grabbed the phone; adrenaline made my fingers tremble uncontrollably. The phone ringed, and the time never flowed slower.

Please. Please. Please.

“Hello?”

Her voice hit my chest like a punch. Tears welled up in my eyes, covering my vision. I opened my mouth a few times, mumbling meaningless whispers. A glimmer of hope began to shine, and I thought that maybe, just maybe, the scars could finally heal.

“Hello?” She repeated. “Is someone there?”

“M-Mom?”