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9 months old. Or so. I didn’t really have any idea how numbers worked. Just how warm my mommy’s touch was. And how at home I felt whenever she’d rock me in her arms.

I remember being inside my crib, unable to sleep, crying.

Seconds later my mother stirs in her bed and slowly gets up. Zombie style. I see her peeking through the jumble of blankets and stuffed toys to the chubby baby in the crib. Slowly and carefully, she dismantled me from the mess, obviously struggling to make baby talk sense as she herself wakes her motor abilities up.

I am in my mommy’s arms, cradled by warmth and a lullaby, so vivid even after 20 years, to sleep.

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