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May 1, 2016
In my memory, there are two photos of you fussing over my hair. One is in front of a red Fiera, your face focused on my half-ponytail while I beamed at the camera with my imperfect teeth. The other is at a cousin's wedding, wherein nobody seemed to bother about the other flower girl's (me) hair and makeup. I was nonchalant and half-aware of what was going on. You were late that day, and you were indignant that no one took care of your little girl. It would be years before I'd fully understand that that was love.