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Ceiling Masquerade

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When I was really little I used to sleep in Mom's bed every night. Warm and safe, her breath lightly brushing my face for every second of the night, it was where I belonged. I remember on nights that I couldn't sleep she'd make up stories about bunnies and fairies, dragons that talked to the frogs of the night and princesses that slipped from their tower windows to run away with their princes. Her words painted a masquerade of pictures on the dark ceiling, lulling me, pulling me in to sleep. She would lay facing me and hold my hand, whisper to me of all the magical things her mind could invent. Of the things that inspired me to be my own story teller today.
And when the story was over, she would say, "Okay now, go to sleep." I love you." I would always insist on playing the who-loves-who more game. I said I loved her too, and she said she loved me more. It was sweet and one of the only child-hood memories of my mother actually acting like a loving and caring parent. My mom's a stone-cold ice queen. I don't have memories of her like that---like the mother very little girl dreams of. And though I know there must be more than I can remember, it's also one of the few that she told me she loved me.
She hasn't told me that for a long time. When you reach 15, you grow out of Mom's love.





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