Essay on My Memories Of My Life
In my earliest memory there is a guitar in my hands. In my earliest memories of my sister, Koji, she is crying. Her howls sounded as though they were accompanied by a melody only she could hear. When I was 11 and Koji was 6, we performed together for the first time. I 'd called her into my bedroom to help me practise, and she sang the lines our choir would sing at the regional showcase. We were a symphony all of our own, her lilting voice covering my transgressions, and my chords would resonate, smoothing the tremors in her voice where she pushed herself too hard. Interrupted by a piercing feeling on our backs, we turned around to the sight of a small woman in our doorway, overflowing with wisdom and support.
“A kite breeds a hawk, hm?” our mother complimented us, “Or should I say, a kite breeds songbirds?”
“You’re not so common, mother!” Koji replied, her face expressing a combination of objection at our mothers self-deprecation, and pride at her adulation.
It became a weekly…