---An essay for her.

it's past 3am. i was shaken as i see the wooden in floor crimson red.my eyes, stopped at her throwing up blood continuously, and I felt fear right away.at the age of five, i may still be nonchalant but I cried right after the sight of it. It was my mother,... and the last time I ever saw her alive. My younger sister,which was only two years old then, bawled out loud screaming "Mama!" as they carried her hurriedly to the hospital. We frequent the ICU room when she was confined hoping she would wake up on our next visit, but she succumbed to death.I ended up asking God Why her?...that question was never answered.I could recount the time we went through the grief, my father at 25 got widowed and us 5 & 2, left with no mother around. It was terribly difficult and the only time I realized that was when I was growing up. Although, my grandmother stood up more than a mother for us, my mom's presence would have been far different. I grew up and encountered so many things a teenager goes through, of which some are undeniably causing headache to my father,and during those milestones and obstacles,I wished she could have been around to witness it. However, I am lucky enough that although her presence is already left in my memory, I am surrounded with people who wishes nothing but good intentions for me.

Im now seventeen and that question I asked when I was five years old, find its answer slowly as I become mature. Regardless if the answer was to my liking, all I want to think of was the good memories she's shared with me. I remember those times....

I cannot imagine now,if all of these good memories sheltering my mind, remains an untangible memory? Writing pave its way to make untangible things be felt and be understood somehow to a certain degree. It depicts greater meaning to what we see, feel, hear, think and hear. Now I wonder why shouldn't I write afterall.