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“It was a Saturday morning. I was twelve years old. I walked into the kitchen in my pajamas, and there was my mother, bald, sitting at the kitchen table. I was shocked and immediately ran out. As I sat on the stairs in the hallway, she walked up to me. She hugged me and explained that she had lost all her hair because of chemotherapy. My mother fought for 11 years. I heard stories of people dying of cancer in our town, but I was sure that wouldn’t happen to my mother. Every time the tumor came back, she managed to beat it. That was until I was twenty-two, and suddenly, my grandmother knocked on my door, telling me that my mother had passed away that night. It was then that I realized that my mother was not immortal. After the funeral, I went to India. I remember missing my connection flight and learning how immature and lost I was without her. I’ve been traveling for seven years now. Sometimes I forget when exactly she died. I think because the pain has never diminished. My mother is no longer here, but she still exists. I can hear her voice in my head every day. Whenever there is a critical situation or a bad day, I hear her voice guiding me through it.”

by Debra Barraud


met dank aan: Gemeente Amsterdam West Soundtrackcity Het huis van Amsterdam