By 5am the next morning, I couldn’t take it anymore. I opened HowzitBru, typing: Who is this?

I didn’t expect a reply. Even so, I kept the phone in my hand, watching, waiting, like that time I messaged Dlani, after the talent show, because Laetitia dared me and Dlani is hot.

He didn’t reply until the next day: Tx

Which is why, to this day, I avoid making eye contact with him.

But lo and behold, my phone buzzed less than five minutes later: Nevaeh, darling, my name is Mama Amethyst-Rain, and I am a psychic medium, blessed by the universes with the ability to connect with the spirit realm. Your mother, bless her heart, has a restless soul, and urgently wishes to speak with you.

What the––

No. No. NO! This is tra––

Another message came through: And darling, she wishes she could hug you every time you light a candle for your birthday.

I stopped breathing. How could this person know this?  My daddy, Joy and I do this every year, but nobody else is with us.

I started to write a reply when there was a knock on my door. “Nevaeh?” Daddy said. “You going to school today?”

I almost said yes, but then stopped. How the hell could I focus on school right now? “I don’t know, daddy, I’m still not feeling great.”

“Okay, I’ll just leave a bottle of ginger ale by the door now.”

“Thanks, daddy, I will.” And it wasn’t five minutes later, when I was doing exactly that. The stuff has a way of settling the stomach like nothing else.

Still don’t believe it cures you, though. Nor does it provide any pain relief. My heart was hurting, bad.

I looked down at my hands. About a year ago I realised they looked like Ma’s, long and strong, with almond shaped nails that look glossy, despite the fact I don’t do anything to deserve it.

I can’t remember her voice. She used to sing in the church choir. I know her voice was beautiful. I can still see her swaying up there, behind the pulpit, as she led everyone in praise music. I can remember the words, can see her mouth moving, but the actual sound is just the general tune that everybody sings. It isn’t her. That unique voice that rose over the rest. It could be any old choir, as far as my memory is concerned.

But I can still tell you about the time I used a red koki to paint my fingernails when I was five. As if I want to remember that?

Why do our minds remember the wrong things?

***

Tell us: Do you think our minds sometimes remember the wrong things and lose the memories we wish we had?