Time heals all wounds. At least that's what people say. Personally, I have a different opinion. There are some wounds that never quite heal. Some things that, when brought up, still make tears sting your eyes and all of the emotions rush back to you. Anger, depression, remorse. You feel as if it had just happened again. Some things you just don't get over. Time is not a factor.

“What about your mother?” The question comes up all the time. Whether it's about her job, how old she is, or how strict she is at home, the question never fails to catch me off guard. I have to sit and think a minute.

Should I tell them? Do I want them to know? No. I don't want to tell them. I don't want them to know. It's the only way I can avoid their sympathetic stares and their “I'm sorrys.”

I lie.

“She's a stay-at-home mom,” or “She's forty-nine,” or “ She's pretty laid back.” I can't look them in the eyes as I talk. I keep my head down wondering if they might understand why I lied. Would they question my answer? Nobody questioned. My lie remained my secret. Nobody will find out. Not a soul.

While they continue about their own embarrassing mothers and their early curfews, I sink out of the conversation as inconspicuously as I can. It's easier to avoid the topic. To act like she's still here with me. It's easier than saying she died, and having to relive it in my mind is almost torture.

I see her smiling face. The image fades to her funeral. A simple question reminding me yet again that that's all I have left of my mother. Just a memory of her smile.

The wound reopens and I feel the pain tearing me apart, and I have to pull myself together to live another day. Every time I ask myself the same question, Why does it still hurts so much after all of these years?

The answer remains a mystery that I don't think I'll ever understand.

Time heals all wounds? Not so much.