When I was growing up, I had a very close relationship with my mother. I was her favorite child. I never called her Mom, instead I called her by her nickname, "Ticarm." She was my mother and my best friend. I could ask her any kind of questions and share my ideas with her. For instance, we could talk about my school work, the political situation of Haiti, and the relationship I had with my friends. Sometimes when we had free time, we played cards or dominoes. She always kept me focused on my schoolwork. She never let me out the door without my homework. She was a very kind, philanthropic and understanding individual. No matter what I did, she never shouted at me. All the while, she was always there to listen and give me advice. She was eager to help her family and others in any way she could. One day I came home from school and I met an old hunchback man at my house. When I asked her what the man was doing there, she said she was just helping him out with some food.

Despite our good relationship, she always wanted me to come to live with my father in the United States. She thought that I would be safer and have a better future than if I lived in Haiti, because Haiti was ruled by a dictatorship and a military government that terrorized the country - and there are only a few universities. The idea of coming to America was hard for both of us, but we decided that my leaving was for the best.

At this time, my father was living in the United States and applied for a visa for me. Fortunately, it took me only a year and a half to receive it. Finally, on November 11, 1994, I stepped onto American soil. Even though we were living far away from each other, my mother and I frequently wrote and talked on the phone. We talked about things like we used to when I was in Haiti. When we talked on the phone, the second thing she always asked was about my school work. In addition, she would have me to send her my report card. But it was never the same as when we were living together. I always felt that she should have been here living with me.

Then September 28,1996, my mother died while having surgery. She had been very sick. But when this news came to me, I did not know how to handle it. I could not cry. I felt like a lump was in my throat. Moreover, my heart was tearing apart. It was very difficult for me to accept her death. I went back to Haiti for her funeral. I was full of remorse because I never had the chance to visit her since I had come to America.

I wish I had been able to tell her how much I loved her. In my heart, there was nothing stronger than the love I had for her. I am very proud and grateful for everything she did for me. I know she would have wanted the best for me. Therefore, I am working hard to keep her dream alive. I am doing well in school. I want to accomplish something in my life. I want to go to college. Now she and I are in two different worlds; but I know her spirit is with me. I devote myself to do everything I do to make her proud. c