• It was when I was eight. I was separated from my mother.

    At that age I learned to wait, to hold patience for believing that she will come back.

    Christmas was a holiday that I used to love very much.

    That's when she would send presents to me. On that one specific day of Christmas, it was different, she gave me a call, her voice was deepening by age.

    I remember the color of her hair, deep dark by her Japanese ancestry enriched in my own self too.

    She dyed her hair today.

    The same shade my dad met her the first time. The same shade I used to tug to get her attention when I was a baby.

    I am now a splitting image of her.

    I still call her the word that represents her the most.

    "Mother"