I lived in the same address since I was born up until I was 6. That’s when my parents decided to upgrade and move into a bigger apartment because my baby sister Caroline was almost a year old and we would all need more space. I don’t remember the number of the house, I just remember the name, Amackassin. What a weird name for a street. We moved there around the ending months of 2002 and we used to live on the first floor, other tenants occupied the second and third.
This is where Rosalia comes in (It should be noted that I couldn’t even recall her name, it was my mother who remembered and even then she says she’s not so sure either.) We’ll call her Rosalia. It doesn’t help that my memory is completely flawed. I may not remember her name, but I sure remember her. I knew I had pictures with her somewhere, lost in the vast collection of memories frozen in time that my mother likes to keep. After sending her on a wild goose chase for that picture she told me it was nowhere to be found.
“Maybe it’s in your photo albums,” she said.
“No mamá, I already checked them.”
“Did you check behind the photos? Sometimes when you were little you would shove two pictures into the same slot.”
Huh. It was a long shot but sure, I checked and voila. Behind one of the pictures I found it. If it weren’t for that photograph, I wouldn’t remember her clearly at all. As is, my memories are already quite vague just like the rest of my childhood. My mind is like the waves of a sea, sometimes memories would come constantly and all at once, other times there would be none at all. The sea would turn still and dormant.
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