When I recall memories of my mother, I find that there isn't much I remember.

"Son."

A slightly high-pitched yet gentle voice calling out to me.

The soft touch of her hand brushing my rough hair, while holding my younger sibling in her other arm.

The smiling face looking at me, and the image of my mother enjoying the breeze as if embracing spring lingers in my mind.

In later years, when I realized this was what people called memories, my mother had already disappeared.

My mother had a particular fondness for the seasons.

It seemed like she liked spring …