The following is a personal narrative in which outlines a fond memory I have of my mother, who has passed away. *Forewarning: this is long, but worth the read.*

The wind is teasing my face. It dances around me, extending one hand out to invite me into its whimsical assortment of steps. Then, just before we interlock fingers, it pulls away from me in one swift motion. It continues to whirl around without me. A bee flies by, singing its beautiful song. I am terrified of it, fuzzy body and all.

I am terrified of a lot of things, actually. However, at this time in my life, the things I am afraid of are much different than what I will come to fear. Today, I am seven. My head spins with with the motion of the threaded mass beneath me. I feel really really happy.

My smelly summertime feet are covered in calluses and they are tough. I hope I grow up to be tough like them. I hope my toe nails stay pretty and pink like they are now. I stick them right in my mom's face, and she frowns. I tangle them in her knots of red hair. It's so long and freely flowing. I want to be like her hair: big, beautiful, and important.

She shakes her head in disapproval, yet extends her own hand to me. She leans to the opposite side of the hammock. Instead of pulling away, just as the wind did, she remains still. A bottle of Snapple is in her hand. She is a constant force. She teases me, but I can tell it's because she adores me. I know, because immediately she gives me this look. This look makes me feel beautiful and valued. It makes me feel honored to be teased by her.

I don't really think anyone deserves her love. Her love is the type that makes everything better. If I have a bad day at school or my tummy hurts, she gives me this look and everything fizzles away. Her eyes are so blue I could swim in them, and I am mesmerized. Everything is fuzzy, but her face is clear.

I can't make out the brilliant shades of green that reside upon the trees, but I know they are there. I know they are there because of the way the air smells of freshly cut grass. It is sharp and clean, and pulls at the hairs in my nose with its strength. The sun is beating down and I hope that someday I will find someone that looks at me the way my mom looks at her book. Hopeful and mesmerized. I hope someday I can just be her. She is my superhero.

"A sip."

I am seven. I remember her words, but the tone has vanished with the wind.

I am eighteen. The wind no longer invites me to dance, and my mother's hair is no longer red with fire. Her curls do not bounce and I haven't relaxed in a hammock with her in over a decade. The taste of Snapple is gut-wrenching, and my nail polish of choice has translated from bubble-gum pink to deep-pastry red. I am not a bubble-gum kind of girl, anymore. I once was bright and bubbly, blowing up and popping with pure joy. Now I am strawberries that began juicy and abundant in flavor which has been smashed with a hammer.

I haven't tasted the smell of freshly cut grass, and my feet are dainty and soft. I am not who I thought I would grow up to be. I think of that day, so long ago, and I can only make out her face. That beautiful, perfect face that everyone says we share. Now, the only way to see the resemblance is through the abundant albums that I have fingered through whenever my heart goes from yellow to blue. The same photos that displayed the timeline of her little life. When my thoughts go dark and the voices are more pronounced, she is right there with that bottle of Snapple.

She now dances in the wind without me.

When the sun beams down on my face and my depression is barely lingering, I imagine her outstretched arm. When everything becomes too much and I am drowning in my own thoughts, I drop that day a line. Though it seems the older I get the more expensive that long distance call gets. We are up to three thousand dollars per second.

When I go back, I can feel the sun again. I watch the freckles on her face grow darker and my heart sings like the bees I shrieked of. I forget my current fears and I grasp that bottle of Snapple. I grasp it like if my hands are wrapped around it, then I have the control. Holding it was like conquering my greatest mountain and having a shrunken version in the palm of my hand. I felt a power that introduced me into an entire new level of emotions. For the first time in my life, I had control.

"A sip."

I gulped that bottle down in thirty seconds, flat. I really mean it.

I took her for granted when I had her, much like I did with the Snapple. God gave her her on one condition: it may only be for a few short years. Reminding me that she was never truly mine in the first place.

She offered me her drink on one condition: I take only one sip. Reminding me, once more, that it was never truly mine in the first place.

I didn't have time to feel bad. I have plenty of that in my current day.

I'm not entirely sure what compelled me to make that split-second decision, but I am almost glad I did, despite my youthful naive. My mom was livid, believe me. But seeing her smile after that wave of anger passed shined like her favorite golden glitter. That single smile is the product of the person I grew into. She produced a skin for me that was difficult to fill, shoes much too large for my feet. But in that moment, I giggled more than I do now. That counts for something.

I go to this moment when I am told it is okay to be sad. When the voices in my head try to persuade me to believe them when they tell me I deserve the pain I have been given.

I go to this moment to taste that joy that has been distant from my mouth, similar to sugary Snapple that gives me an abundance of energy. I remind myself that even when I lose control, I am still capable of re-obtaining it.