• Blanket of Memories

    The memories of our past envelop each of us as a blanket, weaving its threads through our pores, holding us captive to historical tears, crusted scars and deafening screams. As a little girl I already knew that life would never be perfect. By the age of five I had already witnessed the bruises on my mother’s face and the irremovable red stains on her blouse. My nostrils had grown accustom to the delicious yet wicked aroma of whiskey on my father’s breath. My little body was also no longer innocent to the roaming hands of a protective family member. These were some of the threads sewn together to create what would become…