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  • My earliest memory was a very important thing to me and I did my best to preserve it very vividly. It was a day at my grandmother’s house. I was sitting on my father’s legs, looking at my hand and comparing it to his. I used to remember the difference in size, the color of the furniture and the warmth of his hand touching mine. I actually never knew what I had made out of the comparison, but I like to think this was the moment I first realized that the passing of time would make me become another person; a bigger, stronger and more mature person. A better person, if you will.

    One of these days I was about to narrate this memory to a couple of friends but I stopped short of speaking. Because I realized it was gone. I know it once existed, but the images and sensations are gone. I can’t find them anywhere in my fallible mind. And this really sucks. Not only that was a very poetic moment of my infancy (at least I think so), but also I know that one day all I am going to have of these people we call parents is the memories. I have killed a part of myself and of other people too. The frustration is overwhelming.
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