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I was seven when my mom died.  I was barely able to comprehend it.  The terrible, unavoidable, undeniable truth.  She was gone.  Forever.   All I had left of her were my memories.

It was Tuesday morning, 7:20, and she still wasn't up.  All that was going through my head was that she had to take me to school.  I sat in my room, tying my shoe, when I looked at the time.

I called to my mom that we had to be at school soon.  When I didn't hear any movement, I went to her room.

I flung open the door to reveal her still unconscious in her bed.  I walked over to her bedside and shook her arm.  Still she lay there, unmoving.

I rolled her over so she was on her back.  Her eyes were closed.  I shook again and again and again.  Still, nothing happened.

Then, I looked down at her stomach to find that it was not moving in the rhythmic motion like it usually did.

"No," I whispered to nobody specific.

I kept shaking her, hoping she would wake up.  Hoping this was just a horrible prank.  But she still did not move.

"Mom.  Mom!  Please wake up!  Mom! Please!" I begged.  Hot tears rolled down my face.

"Mom?" I whispered once again.

The next few days were a blur.  I just stayed in my room, not wanting to believe the truth.

I didn't go to the funeral.  I couldn't bare it.

All week, memories flew in my head, over and over again.

I remember her soft whisper in my ear at night when I had a bad dream.  I remember her flower-smelling perfume that surrounded her.

It was hard to believe that I would never come home to find her face smiling at me.  I would never get another hug or kiss form her again.  I would never hear her sweet voice comforting me.

Never again would I have more than a memory of my mother.