“Quickly, Mahta, hop in,” my mother ordered tensely. “We haven’t much time!

Obediently, I launched my tiny body into the boxy white van. Cramming myself in between about 30 others, I tightly latched onto my mother’s hand and tried to calm myself. Everything will be okay, it will all be okay, I told myself repeatedly, while I rocked back and forth. I looked over nervously at my father and watched as beads of sweat began to form on his forehead and drip down his face. Catching my glance, he offered me a weak smile. Cautiously, I allowed my deep brown eyes to peek through one of the cracks in the van. The steep edge of a rocky cliff was all that I saw before my brother yanked my brown pigtails back towards him.

“Are you trying to get us caught?” he asked in an angry tone. In response, I put my head in my knees, and remained silent for the rest of the ride. I breathed in and breathed out. Steady. That was all that I could hope for.

Suddenly, the van began to slow down. I raised my head and exchanged terrified glances with the other passengers. The van continued to decrease in speed until it halted completely. All 30 of us looked around, petrified. This was our only way out, and if it didn’t work, I don’t know what would happen next.
Abruptly, someone began to pound on the door. The weak van shook back and forth, teetering on the edge of a cliff, ready to fall off the edge into nothingness. With a brave facade, my father pushed open the door.
There they were. My worst nightmare. A member of the Taliban reached out his beefy hand, and grinned evilly at me, displaying 2 rows of crooked, yellow teeth. He grasped onto my skinny, cocoa-colored leg and-
I shook and awoke to see that a pile of sweat surrounded me. Panting heavily, I glanced at my clock. 3:06 A.M. the red lights flashed. Only 1 hour and 54 minutes until I had to wake up.    
Nightmares like these were not uncommon for me. When I was 7, my family and I fled Afghanistan, seeking freedom in America. Luckily - no, it wasn’t luck. Because of my parent’s dedication to our family, when I was 8, we moved to Brunswick, Georgia. We have lived here for 8 glorious years.
Gradually, a new wave of fatigue began to wash over me. My heavy eyelids drooped down, and I fell back asleep for another 114 minutes until my obnoxious alarm rudely interrupted me. Yawning, I stretched out my arms. I sat up in my creaky, rusty bed and hopped out, onto the tired wooden floor. As I walked to the sole bathroom in our two-story house, I was cautious to avoid any nails sticking out of the makeshift wooden floor.
I tiptoed quietly down the rickety stairs, careful not to wake the rest of my family up. Peeking out the tiny kitchen window, I sighed happily, gazing at the summer sunrise. The layers of purple, orange, and pink in the sky all folded over each other to create a repressing smolder. That was what I lived for -- the simple pleasures. The things that made me forget, that took my worries and pushed them away, even for just a second.
When I was 10, the doctors diagnosed my mother with Alzheimer’s. Only two years after her courageous escape, she was faced with another colossal problem. Now I am 16. Ever since that dreary November morning, my life has been teeming with medical bills and hospital visits.
At first, the disease came on slowly. No one thought much of misplaced car keys or forgetting to push open the door instead of pulling. However, as time went on more memories faded from her mind, like vivacious auburn leaves transforming into a dull brown color. In her head, many of our milestones became nonexistent.
Every Sunday at 4:00, my family and I make a point to visit. We talk to her, reminding her of the timeline of her life. Sometimes, she is lucid. Other times she is not. All we can do is show up and hope for the best.
Today, my brother and father and I hop into our shiny black minivan, shielding our eyes from the penetrating rays of the Georgia summer sun.

Loudly, in my thick Afghan accent, I screamed “Shotgun!” trying my best to act like a normal 16 year old. To everyone around me, I was a plain, ordinary teenage girl, learning to drive and dealing with little issues, like boys and friends. However, my mind was an endless sea of problems that contained no answers.

As we pulled up to the bare, lifeless hospital building, a shadow of doubt crept across my mind. What if she’s not okay? What if she died already? Something feels different. Ignoring those fearful warnings, I did my best to force a huge, toothy grin onto my face. Walking into her hospital room, I looked lovingly at my mother, who had bravely survived 3 brain surgeries over the course of the last week. She made eye contact back, but it was clear that she was only half-there.

“Uh, hi, hello, uh Mahta,” she said apprehensively in her broken English.
“Hello mother,” I replied bashfully, not sure whether or not I should hold back. “Did you miss me?”
With faint smile that was cloaked by a puzzled look, she responded, “Yes, miss you I did. You not come visit me in two months. Where you been?”
Wrong, I thought to myself. We were here last week at 4:00, just like always.
“No honey,” my father reminded her, “We visited you last week at 4:00, just as usual.”
“No, no, look I have it marked on calendar!” she exclaimed frantically.

My brother and I traded uneasy glances when we saw that she was pointing at the curtains. I was unaware that it had gotten this bad.

“Excuse me, I have to go bathroom,” I proclaimed, really to no one. I just needed a moment to gather my thoughts. Just one moment of peace.

Frustrated, I sprinted into the bathroom. I looked in the mirror at myself. Average height, brown eyes, brown hair, dark skin, nothing special. Ordinary yet so unique.

If you looked at me, you would see a 16 year old Afghan girl. Nothing more, nothing less until racial prejudices took over. However, when I see myself, I see a wounded warrior. Someone who had fought a brutal war and lost. My escape from Afghanistan, growing up in a crime-heavy town of Georgia and my mother’s disease seem to sum up my existence. In reality, though, I had done none of those things. I have yet to leave my footprint on the world.

As I stood there, looking at myself in the barren hospital bathroom, I realized something. If I wanted to accomplish something big, I must begin with something small. Making the most of the time I had with my mother must reign at the top of my priority list. Sighing happily, I collected my thoughts and walked back to my mother’s hospital room, with a newfound spring in my step.

“CODE BLUE, CODE BLUE!” 5 doctors shouted frantically, sprinting past me and down the hall. Someone just lost a mom, dad, sister, brother, wife, husband, best friend, or fiance, I thought to myself, putting a damper on my motivated mood.

Scanning the room numbers on the doors, I searched for room 204. 200, 201, 202, 203, wait what!?
Clogging the entrance to my mother’s room were several doctors trying to pull the unstable rolly bed out through the narrow doorway. Sheer panic washed over my entire body and coursed through my veins. When I looked at the bed, I saw my mother. Still. Not a muscle in her body flinched. Too afraid to look at my brother and father, I sprinted out of the room and began to cry.

Heavy, painful sobs heaved from my body as an avalanche of tears poured out of my eyes. I ran, ran as far and fast as I could, under the impression that I would escape my problems. Slamming through the polished hospital doors, I looked up at the sky saw that night time had already arrived.

Plopping myself on the neatly trimmed grass, I began to think. This was my fault, all my fault. I left for the bathroom and now she’s gone. Gone forever. What did I do? Why do I ruin everything?

As I turned my head to the side, I saw my father, a puddle of tears, begin to walk towards me. Making a feeble attempt to smile, he put his head next to mine. We sat there in silence for 20 minutes, listening to cars honk and crickets chirp. Everyone else’s life seemed to continue without skipping a beat, whereas mine had seemingly terminated.

“You know, when she died she was in a lot, a lot of pain. She, she’s in a better place now,” my father’s shaking voice offered.

“I know, father,” I replied flatly. Nothing and no one could make me feel better right now.

“She didn’t remember much,” he began to confide. “I mean, when she died, she didn’t remember who we were. So I think that we have to remember for her, you, your brother and I, we have to remember for her.”
“Father? Is she gone forever?” I asked, unstable.

“No, darling, no. She hasn’t left. Look up at the stars. She is one of them now, watching over you.”
I nodded in silence, processing this information. 

“I’m going to go talk to your brother now, Mahta. I’ll be back out soon.”
“Okay, thank you father,” I ended, concealing my emotions.

When I was 7, I was a wallflower, wilted and beaten-up. I guess I still would be one if my parents hadn’t been brave. But they were. They were courageous in the face of danger, and for that, I am forever grateful. As I layed in the dewy blanket of grass, I opened my eyes and gazed in awe at the millions of stars above. Some I could see. Some I could not. But I knew without a doubt that they were all there, my mother among them. Because no matter how many were visible to the naked eye, each one made the sky a little bit brighter.

“I remember mom,” I whispered, my glassy eyes allowing a single tear to trickle down my cheek. “I remember.”