Memory Stash

This is a piece I wrote in 2008. I was still a teenager.   " My mom is the Mona Lisa of my life: in a frame, forever an enigma. The light plays tricks on the photograph I have of her on my desk and I can almost discern some expression on her face at times. She is my conscience, my inner voice personified. Like every mother, she has to be convinced before I take any decisions, argued with to obtain permissions and her happiness is of utmost importance. She's my strength and when I am faced with an obstacle, all I do is ask her to be with me. She's always there, mind you. She's been my torch in several dark alleys and my only consolation when I lie alone on my bed, cursing the universe for all its faults. There are times, when I come to my senses and cry, for I miss her sorely and wish that I could be like all those other carefree girls out there, gallivanting freely without a scruple to have them do otherwise. And then there are times, when I hate her for leaving, leavi...