When it comes to memories of my mother, I must admit, I donât recall much.
I was too young back then, and decades have passed since. At best, only fragments remain.
One memory is that she loved winter.
On snowy days, she would always hold my sisterâs and my hands as we walked through the snow-covered paths.
She once mentioned that she liked things that were pure white. Or at least, thatâs what I think she said.
And perhaps because of that, she also loved white flowers.
Actually, she seemed to love anything that was white.
But there was one exception.
"She liked our hair."
Despite her love for all things white, my mother had an odd fondness for our pitch-black hair.
Her own hair was as white as freshly fallen snow, but she once said it was fortunate that ours was black.
It made no sense, but she would say it so earnestly.
Those were happy times.
Every day seemed that way when I think back on it.
There were no worries, just days spent enjoying the moment.
âSon, do you like this?â
âYes.â
On snowy days, I would often nap on the wooden porch, my head resting on my motherâs lap.
Her embrace was warm.
Yet, despite her warmth, my mother, like all members of the Gu family who radiated heat, felt the cold acutely, even though she loved winter.
Why was that? I remember it being a strange reason.
Ah, right.
âItâs because I donât have fur.â
Thatâs what she said.
Even now, itâs hard to make sense of those words. Maybe it just meant she was sensitive to the cold.
Anywayâ
I liked my mother.
No, Iâm sure I did.
Even if I donât remember everything clearly, I believed I did.
Which is whyâ¦
I must be dreaming about her now.
A dream about something I canât return to, something I can only long for.
âMy son.â
ââ¦â
I felt a touch on my hair.
Perhaps because itâs been so long since Iâve dreamt of her, the sensation felt vivid.
The gentle strokes of her hand were soft.
As if she were truly there, stroking my hairâ¦
ââ¦â
Something felt off.
"Isnât this too real for a dream?"
That thought lingered as I slowly opened my eyes.