Morning

It's two twenty-three AM, though calling it morning is truly a matter of poor taste. Poor taste in time. During summer one has at least three more hours of night left. Two twenty-three couldn't possibly be morning. I would know if it was, i hate that time of day. Two twenty-three is a good time for trying to remember.
Imagine yourself sitting in front of a public library. First one you ever saw or visited. Your derriere rests on a short stone wall and behind you is a park. There, you can hear the fountain making perfect white noise allowing you to think. Now think hard, really hard. Can you remember your life? Your childhood, the people you loved and cared about? All of them? Well, not me. I know their names, maybe sometimes recognize faces from a distant memory.
So, today I took a notebook and a pencil.It is the sixteenth of July. Her birthday. Since I don't drive, never having taken the exam (which is extremely indicative of my life and behaviour as an adult), i rode my bicycle here. Upon arrival, there were still some people sitting in the park with their dogs,and I took my place in front of the library.
As my chewed up pen started gliding over the paper, I couldn't remember more. It wasn't helping. Faces didn't magically appear on paper, nor did events or memories.
Depressing as that may be, i wrote down less than a page of recalling my mother.
I wrote about her lovely blonde hair, how soft her hands were, our time spent at that library. I was two minutes away from where we all used to live, and could almost feel the soft red carpet that covered most of the flat. I remember it being warm inside.In every way.
Even as I accepted the fact that I can't be sure of anything written with a chewed up pen, simply because of the inaccuracies of my own mind, I still know, and am forever reminded that it was warm inside. It was always warm inside.