Mami

I don't remember the exact date. 1989. The first time you walked into our home, holding a lighted lamp. But I don't remember the expression on your face. I was seven years old. During the first few evenings, you would play with the kids of the household, the kind of games usually no adult nowadays bothers to be a part of.

Over the years, several moments of intense sunshine came about when you would fill the shoes of a dutiful mother. By failing to perceive the difference between your own children and the rest, you would be echoed as being unique.

As the sun greeted us everyday, the presents always seemed insignificant. But looking back, the only feeling that lingers is that every gift was indeed sacred.