A memory that has no photo: myself, my brother and her, we are in a doctor's office. The doctor is upset, he does not like me. He tells my mother to come back latter without us, or to leave us in the waiting room. She tells him, "no," and leaves. She is pulling my hand. We go down some stairs. The doctor comes after us. "Wait," he yells, "I need to tell you things your children should not hear," and his voice echoes off the cinder-block walls of the stair-well. My mother picks me up, pushes open a door that lets the three of us outside where it is hot and bright. My brother is walking behind us. "Mom," he says, "we've got to go back." But we keep walking. This memory of her, my only true memory has no sights. It is just her arms around me, and my arms around her neck, and my face against her face, and both of us crying while the doctor is coming, running after us, to stop her there on the sidewalk where he will tell news that she and I already know.