A Memory
The anger and disappointment of my regretful memory kept showing itself in my dreams. It always made me feel foolish.
I can see myself bored and entering my parents bedroom. On the sheets of their bed, lay my mother's sewing equipment. Colorful threads and silver, pointy needles were encased in a translucent box. The box I now despise and all its contents.
Continuing on, I took the box and quietly carried it into my cluttered room. I already had some buttons with abstract designs on them. They were usually underneath the cushions of our couches in the living room. As I proceeded to put the thread through the small hole of the needle, I kept getting soft aches. In the process, the needle and my left hand kept colliding into each other. I gave slight screams each time it happened. I was sweating with frustration and anger.
After minutes of agony, I gave up regretting those moments. I still have a scar from that memory. I will continually live to regret and be embarrassed by what had happened.
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