Some of her happiest memories were those who resided in the back of her hardened mind. The memories that were untainted by the everyday struggle that had become her entire life, the memories where everything was mystical and magical, the forever sunny memories taken through the innocent eyes of a young child.
Time had reduced these rich memories into fuzzy glimpses of a happier life- the warmth of a mothers inbrace, the smell of blueberry pancakes, the prematurly battered body of her soft teddy, family, sun, running through the grass, being chased by the impossibly tall figure that was her dad, a cow, strawberries, lego.
Then came one of her first clear memories.
A perfect day, it seemed. The sky was so blue, so perfect. Most of the day was faded from memory, however there was a part of it that was stuck their permantely.
Her mum was crying.
Slouched over, sat on the plastic kiddy table, she was crying her eyes out.
Etta was too young to really understand but whatever it was had to be pretty bad- her mummy rarely ever cried.
Time may have robbed their faces from her memory but that image,the image of her mum sat on that table, was as clear as a photograph. Her mum mum broken.
It took her years to connect that memory to any kind of significance, but at the age of 17 Etta had realised what it was- what had caused her mum so much despair.
That was the day Etta had been taken away.
