Thursday, November 29, 2012


(sorry I haven't been keeping up the blog posts, been busy finishing one book, and starting another... this is the start of the new book, Mama.  Note that this Lara is different from the Larabee who's posted before -- Shelley)

I called my real mother Mama.  That much I remember.
The rest is a blur.  I don’t even know what she looks like.  In my memories, I see parts, such as her feet, padding down the stairs in Chinese slippers one time after I spilled my milk, so quiet, I wouldn’t have known she was coming except for the creak of the steps in our old house. 
I remember the quick pattering of my heart against my ribs – Mama always said I was nothing but bones -- but I don’t remember why I was so scared – was I going to get in trouble?  What kind of trouble, and how much?  Would she yell?  Punish me? 
I remember her crying a lot.  She was always crying.  Would my spilled milk make her cry?  Was it my fault she cried all the time?
If my memories are real at all, I know that in a flash of quick thinking, I put the cat on the table, and he lapped up all the milk before my mother got downstairs.  When Mama reached me, she patted my head, calling me a good girl for finishing all my milk.  All my fear slipped away in a rush of relief.