My first memory was a room.

It was strikingly cold, without an iota of warmth.

The walls were all wooden, finely shaven to be smooth to the touch.

Carefully ventilated by fans to ensure I could not feel the heat outside,

With rugs carefully placed throughout the room to ensure there was no spot of exposed wood,

With no window that would allow me to be distracted from focusing on the task before me.

And the sound of my 'mother' informing me to begin trying to walk straight once more,

To perform better next time.

Once I got it right, we wouldn't need to continue today.

That was my first interaction with the woman who would be my 'mother.'

I would never hear her congratulate me,

Nor that she cared or loved me,

There was only ever something to improve.

Something new to learn or work on.

Some new skills to learn, 

To move on to master,

Then onto another skill that builds onto the last.

No moment of true rest, just another moment of working.

. . .

If I worked hard enough, maybe all that would be left to hear from her would be praise.

If I corrected my posture, maybe she would give me a hint of a smile.

If I spent nights studying to ace the tests given to me, maybe she would look at me and see me.

All I would need to do...is play the role.

Old Memory of "Flag of Charity"