Gary came over.
But it didn’t come empty-handed.
I was bringing a little box.
“There’s something else.
He handed it to me.
What is it?
My mom kept it for years.
I didn’t understand.
Gary took a deep breath.
Your mom gave it to her before she died. He asked her to wait until the time has come.
I opened the box.
Inside was an envelope.
I immediately recognized the lyrics.
It was my mom’s.
My hands started shaking.
I opened the letter.
I couldn’t read it full aloud.
The tears didn’t leave me.
But there was a part I never forgot.
My mom said that maybe someday someone would try to convince me that our memories could be replaced.
That things could be lost.
That a house could change.
That even a dress could break or disappear.
But there was something that no one could copy or take away from me:
