We redecorated my bedroom when I was nine, new wallpaper like a disco jungle, green vines edged in metallic silver. Bookshelves crammed with Nancy Drews and encyclopedias—new volumes each month from the grocery store—and my little desk, painted the color of the limes I picked for margaritas years later from the tree in my California backyard.
I want to ask if she remembers the gaudiness. If she remembers ABBA on my portable record player, its fake denim design. I want to ask my mother all this and more, but she would not remember, and besides, she is gone.
Amie, your story got me hooked and I've subscribed. Looking forward to more reading delights.
So much love for you and your writing.