I know they can't even be an ounce, but the weight is so much more.

Two five by seven glossies, printed in a tourist trap kiosk. I paid a far higher price than I should have, but the cost hasn't yet been tallied.

Money is a tide, but memory is a well.

Wells sometimes run dry.

Her well isn't as deep as it once was.

I'm stricken by how much she looks like her grandmother. What strikes me even more is the possibility that she'll live as long.

I'm ashamed to admit that I hope she doesn't. Her independence is already gone, her mobility a thing of the past and her thoughts have started trailing after.

My great-grand was with us into my early twenties. She lived long enough to wither on the vine, mind as sharp as a razor but a body fragile as glass. When the light in her eyes began to dim, when her memory began to slip, her body had already started to go. It was an easy thing for her to follow.

My mother's mind started slipping by inches, and her body has declined by miles. Now it's a race to see which one will be gone first.

She knows she's in decline. She's fighting it, but she's losing.

Dialysis starts soon.

I took her on a bucket list trip last week; we originally had it planned for late summer.

Late summer will be too late.

The water was too cold, but she went anyway. She'd never stepped foot in the Caribbean, and now she has.

When I told her about the trip, the first thing she asked was if she could swim with dolphins.

"Absolutely you will," I told her.

And she did.

She hates having her photo taken, so while she was distracted with my step father, I moseyed over to the photo center.

She never asked what I had in the bag.

Two photographs, professionally captured, have her kissing or petting her very own personal Flipper. She watched that show when she was a kid, and half a century later, she finally got to swim with a bottlenose.

When it's her time to go, I'll probably be tasked with building an electronic photo reel. It will be hard to do, because she avoids cameras when she can. She always has.

I knew when I bought these pictures that eventually they'd be displayed in memoriam.

Carrying these photos back to my hotel room, I know they can't even be an ounce, but the weight is so much more.

Dear Plexiglassfruit,

Of all the letters I may have sent, I have never written to my mother-- my real mother. I suppose I never believed that she was there, waiting, as recipient, and I'm not sure what I would have said, in years past, on paper.

My mother-in-law says she cannot imagine, as a mom, not being proud of me. She is very kind. There is pride, and Pride; and I have understood that for my mother I am on the cold inverse of the sentiment. Mother puzzles over me and makes comparisons. I tacitly admit the rationale. I make odd choices; everyone voicing an opinion, has told me as much.

Mother has graciously let it go after all, as notable, but uninteresting. We both know that I don't have anything to offer her--- I am useless as a backscratcher. There is simply nothing I can do for her, pragmatically. She has lived life as a sort of barter, with the eye on always coming up ahead. Having expected a man to take care of her, she has learned that money takes care of her. She steels herself to this state of affairs.

She told me a few years ago that, for Enlightenment, I am not ready.

(*My sister, yes; She has paid her dues, I suppose.)

I can only marvel at the confidence of the proclamation. I lay no claims, and wouldn't dare cast judgement... I guess I hadn't much thought about reaching Enlightenment, sitting out here in the dark peripheries of our misunderstandings. My childish hope was that we take care of each other.

If I were to write to my Mom, in abstraction of all that binds us in our interpersonal experience, I would write something she would likely dismiss as "dispassionate essay:"

Dear Mother,

Motherhood is not at all what I expected.

You cryptically said to me, a couple years in, when my child was almost three that "Now" I understand, and know. Truly, I do not. I rather sense some discrepancies in our perceptions and acknowledge the inaccuracy of my own viewpoints. The insinuation I feel is that, now, presumably I understand what it is to be pegged. Saddled. Of course, with affection and responsibility. Because that is the sentiment that I associate with our family reflection of child rearing-- The burden wrought.

And I observe the key differences that may or may not have been fully voiced. That motherhood "happens" in different ways. It has been expressed as lament, in our family circle, as the limitation of self. The facts remain, Mother, that you yourself said you were "not ready," and my sister though eager, was "surprised" by pregnancy. You've each countered that I was so reluctant and calculated as to "sap the Romance out of it"... well, certainly everyone's notion of such fantasy is varied. I have never doubted anyone's Love, in the short- or long-term.

I understand that having a child, or children, is tiring. The state of being on alert, all the time, is not necessarily shared by all parents though. I have learned this in watching the families of my preschool students. I also know it, from being left, so often unattended as a child, without adult supervision; under the care of my sister, two years older, and sometimes not even that. I understand the impulse that sometimes overwhelms and makes a parent want to withdraw. I have felt it.

For whatever it was that made you want to pull away, Mom, I am sorry.

I hope I never hit you, pinched you, scratched you, spit at you, demeaned you or otherwise made you feel faced with contempt. I am wracking my memory for any such incident and cannot remember.  And I cannot think of a thing more heartbreaking, abusive and demoralizing. A form of domestic violence that has no legal recourse, the abuser being a minor and outside of the law.

So, as you have doubtlessly wondered: what then do I think of Motherhood? I have not found that being a parent is aww and diapers, sleepless nights, and adventures. That was understood. To be sure, I expected it to be, for lack of a better word, "work." I hoped for Motherhood, as an ideal; an opportunity I suppose. I was looking to be fully present, and now, have these constant questions: ...Have I done the right things? Where have I gone wrong? ...What can I do to make a correction for my apparent, yet undeciphered, errors? ...for surely, the evidence shows, if only in my own sight, that I am doing something not right... to have fears about my child.

Of all of this, naturally, you are unaware. You are not here; pictures sent show only smiles, and I have said nothing, except the underlying truth that yes, I am happy to be a Mom.

Perhaps it is of these misgivings that you speak of... when you say, "Now...you know."

M.

Dear mom,

First and foremost, I want to tell you that I love you. (Here is where you say “I love you more”). I love you more.

You have told me many times that I am the reason you were born. Quoting a movie, apparently, though I can’t find it when I look it up, so maybe you’re misquoting (which is even better - in that case, it is your own).

“She is the reason I was born.” - you?

I don’t know why I was born. It might be the same reason. You were born to be my mom and I was born to be your daughter. Did you know that women are born with all of their eggs? So, in a way, I was with you your whole life. Sometimes, I get sad because I cannot go back in time and hug you. I know you had sad times when you were a kid and I want to comfort you then but I was not born until you were 31. I like the idea that I was always with you.

I don’t think that I am your only purpose. While I do think that I am most of all your daughter (and dad’s daughter, and Eddie’s sister, etc.), there are other things about me. The same goes for you. You are a mother, a wife, a sister, an aunt (and you are good at all of those things), but also: you’re a great cook, you’re better than everyone at Boggle, you’re the most generous and kind person I have ever met, you are smart (especially at computer stuff that I don’t understand), you are fashionable (you don’t need my help even though you think you do). Most importantly, all animals love you (sometimes, I worry you will pick up a wild animal and bring it home and it would let you).

Sometimes you say mean things to yourself, particularly about your appearance, which not only makes me sad, but also has never made sense. For my whole life, I’ve wanted to look like you. I’ve only ever heard people say that you’re beautiful.

I know I say I want to die a lot (and, when I’m having panic attacks, I do feel that way. Thank you for taking me to endless doctors appointments for the last decade by the way), but I am grateful for my life. Remember when I said “I don’t believe things will ever get better”? You said “I’ll believe for you”. That was when I was in high school and I think about it all the time. I have actually told that to other people as well when they feel the same way. Things did get better, and then they got worse, but I hope they will get better again.

Thank you for giving me Eddie, too. And Mia. And Chilly (via Eddie).

Ex anima (I learned that from college. It means “from the heart/soul”),

GAEGBG

p. s. (this stands for postscript. i learned that in college),

i challenge you to a full game of rummy 500

I am not a mother yet, not by a long shot. I shall be an amazing aunt long before I have my own children, however in the interim as I am, I would like to dedicate this to my child.

I am your mother. I am not good, no, but you are the best parts of me- within the cracks in my foundation you have seeked to nurture. Those cracks have long been filled by the brilliance I know you shall bring this world, my son or daughter. And I thought I was above crying- I do not cry for anyone but those who eat alone and animals and even then it is jaunty.

I will make a million mistakes before you become of age, and further several million when you're able to detest me for them. But I will make this world good for you- our world. I cannot ensure the planet, nor the many people good and bad that inhabit it, but inside you will have me, and your other parent, and your loving uncles and cousins and grandma and great aunt and... god, the list is endless, isn't it? You will be born into the world with the endless amounts of support I feel myself welling in thought at.

I will anger you, hurt you, and you will likely hate me and wish you had any other mother at that time. And I understand. We come from strife, don't we darling? But I'll be around for you, when there's a nick on your finger or you simply long to come home.

I am your mother, your confidante, yours solely. You are half my heart and all of my soul.

Sometimes I catch myself looking too closely at the lines around your eyes. The way they paint your skin. I find them beautiful, this sign of age and love and life. An art piece designed by God and life and trials and happy moments. I try to remember when your skin was smooth. I can only see it in old photographs. I wonder what I will look like after living like you. Everyone always said I looked like you. An almost perfect match. It never felt that way. You are far too perfect. Too beautiful. Too strong. Too funny. Too much of everything I want to be and everything I will never be.

I catch myself remembering when I was younger. The moments when I was so small they may have been dreams. Everything was always loud. Too much to do. Not enough time for anything. I watched you. The way you ran about the house. Watching children. Cleaning messes. Cooking dinner. Making calls. Answering the door. I watched and followed. I wanted to learn. I wanted to make it easier for you. I didn’t like the way you sighed into Dad’s arms when he came home. The way you seemed to disappear until one of us cried long enough for you to return. I tried to soothe them myself. It never worked, until it did.

They listened to me. My little brothers were soothed by the words I copied from you. I learned which books they liked best. My older brothers were tired and stressed. I learned the best way to make them laugh using your voice. I felt like you. I liked making them happy and I liked the way you smiled more often. Your wrinkles became more pronounced with bright eyes instead of tears.

I liked to be like you. I wanted to be like you. Until I didn’t. Surrounded with messes I didn’t make. Children that weren't mine. Food I couldn’t prepare. Calls I was terrified to make. Doors I refused to open. I became angry. I didn’t want to be like you. I felt like another mother. Another parent for siblings older and younger. I hated that I had your eyes. I hated that I had your voice. I hated that I shared your responsibility. But there was some light in your eyes, some of your laughter through the house. You were brighter in a natural way. You went out with Dad. You had time for friends I'd never met before. I could handle everything. I promised you. I really could.

And I did. I handled it all. I wanted to make your life easier. Juggling two jobs; one far too thankless and wageless. I could make it easier, even if it made me hate you a little more every day. I would make your job easier, but I wasn’t made to be a mother. Not yet anyway. From baby dolls and bottles to growing boys and homework in what felt like seconds. A stupid path I chose. I could feel myself crumbling into something I wasn’t. I looked too much like you, but I had a hatred that not even I could comprehend.

It wasn’t your fault. You tried. You really did. I insisted on it and you were tired. If I wanted to step up, who were you to say no? You and Dad could barely handle it on your own. I wasn’t going to let any of your efforts go to waste. I had promised myself and God. You would know you were loved and appreciated. My teacher taught me that imitation was the greatest form of flattery. You deserved more than just flattery.

I promise you it wasn’t your fault. Sometimes I still get angry at everyone, but never you. You were doing your best. I could never blame you.

And I still remember watching you, wanting to be you. I still want to be you. Maybe I’ll take a little break before becoming a mother though. I don’t think I’ll be as good as you. I’ll never have your warmth or your smile or your patience or your kindness. I think I lost it on my way here. But I have my first wrinkle. It’s next to my right eye. I saw it in a mirror. It’s more of a crinkle, but I noticed it when you said a joke. I know you said it just to make me laugh. To make me feel better. To make me feel like a kid again. To say sorry again for everything you couldn’t do for me before. You said you could never apologize enough. I told you once was enough, but I’ll take the extra laughter and the extra smiles. They remind me of yours just like the wrinkle of happiness around my eye.

I wanted to be like you too young. I still want to, but now I think I understand. You were never your responsibilities or your duties or your relationships. You were the scent of apples. You were the color green. You were your red hair. You were the upturn of your lips. You were your love of sewing. You were your many baking ventures. You were the person who loved shrimp. You were your kind words. You were your laughter, the kind so full and loud that everyone can’t help but laugh too. But most importantly you were the wrinkles forming on your skin, etching every happy moment of your life into a tapestry.

My tapestry is just beginning. My motherhood is not quite here. My wrinkles are just starting to form. I want to be like you. I want to be myself, amplifying every little gift you give me. You gave me life, sorrow, and happiness. You gave me everything I am. I only hope that I can live up to it all. But I know what you’ll say. You don’t care as long as I’m me, as long as I’m happy. I love you for that. I love you for every mistake you made, every lesson you taught me, and for every moment you made me smile.

Mom, I’ve never met anyone quite like you and I’ll never be able to thank you for everything you’ve ever done for me. Though my childhood wasn’t perfect and neither was you, you were the best mother for me. You were everything I could have asked for and more. I love you and I can’t wait to see the rest of your wrinkles.

Love,

Your Daughter

All the Month of May, and March, your birth month, are to me Mementos in our family calendar. Ever since your passing, not a day goes by that I do not think of you, but in these the Moments are that much more with Emphasis.

Mom you were my best friend. In ways, you will always remain as such. After all, I still talk to you as if you were right here.

In your Homemade pink floured apron, and the kerchief you wore over your silken hair, I can picture you advising me as you juggled things on the Stove, in the Oven and tended the Store front, and us three children. Mom, I've no idea how you did it. You would remind me to look at the simple things for Inspiration.

Nobody bakes and cooked like you did. I have the Recipes!! and neither I nor my wife (God Bless the Angel for trying!) can replicate. I know it was something to do with the Exactness of how things were done, not the pinch of this or that but How. Whether sprinkled in or rolled or in one clump or over Time. Or how Hot or Cold. You knew. And I'm sure you told me too. I forget. I have learned that Lesson though.

I'm trying to pass that on to the Grandchildren. That Thoughtfulness. That Thoroughness. And that Toughness.

Thank you Mom. It's that No Fail pie crust I'm craving now. No matter what you put in there is was always Right. Perfect. Comfort and Conversation. Just add You and Me, and a pot of Tea, with its yellow cozy.

To you Mom.

All our Love,

Keith

Mother, thank you for your undying, unconditional love. Thank you for teaching me the things that really matter in life, things like service to others, the importance of family, and how precious children are.

You supported me even when you could have put me out, you loved me even at my worst, and you got me through and helped me become better than I started out.

"Thank You" is not enough. I just want you to know that I hope to see you one day with your grin and smiling eyes. You gave me a beautiful life!

The last seventeen years has been really hard without your love and guidance.

Missing you terribly,

Your Daughter.

I can't title this as a letter, as a "Dear ____", as a painful series of sentences designed to make me reflect and feel pain. My children are cells that have not yet divided into fetuses, into little versions of myself, into generational trauma and sticky fingers that reach for an absentee mother.

I suppose this not-letter has to be abstract, because that's what my children are to me, what my relationships with my mother is - a once and future cloud that erupts into thunder when I'm asked, "Do you want children?"

There is nothing quite like dreams to keep me going, nothing quite like hope to inspire a future with a son or daughter.

Life is hard. It's a series of rejections, sickness, and bills to pay. It is a series of rock-bottoms, or maybe that's just what I've experienced.

Can I let my failures as a human being already cloud my perception of motherhood? Will my children suffer for having me as a mother, for watching me reach for something other than their love when I'm down and out, aching for a substance to heal me when family is right in front of me?

I would want more for my children. I want them to be happy, to experience life to the fullest. To hit rock bottom, and instead of bottoming out, to see it like the seasons. A spring of blossoms, rain that creates new life but does not wash away our lessons learned. A summer that does not scorch old terrain and make us want to obliterate pain, but makes generational trauma come out behind shadows; the sepia light reflecting off only what is there to be physically seen, and not just psychically felt.

I want more. I know there is life beyond pain, and I would want that for anyone, whether or not they share my DNA.

I am going to end this not-letter by saying that I am in love with life, but not in the same way a mother loves her child - in a fragmented way, in an autumn of sorrow, in a winter that lightly coats everything in snow and melts away to uncover the peace I so desperately crave for myself.

I'm sorry, mom.

For all of the stupid things I do

that annoy you on a daily basis.

Biting my nails,

hugging you every five seconds,

talking your ear off;

I'm sorry.

And for the days when I feel like

no one loves me,

the days I doubt your heart;

I'm so sorry.

And I don't treat you badly on purpose,

I love you,

more than I show it.

I just have days when it feels like

the whole world is against me-

it's not your fault though.

If I'm having a bad day,

please don't assume it's your fault.

And if I don't make it as far in life

as you have,

it doesn't reflect on you-

I don't blame you for any of it.

Just know that I love you,

mom,

for everything you've sacrificed for me over the years,

and all the troubles you've gotten me out of.

I am eternally grateful.

Thank you.

I have not always honoured you, as I should

Or been grateful for your endless love

Which was there on my most wretched day

The truth, for what it's worth, is I didn't understand you

I believed the poison dripped into my ears

By society and by my father

That by staying home to care for us

You were somehow worthless, lazy, stupid

I made fun of your German accent

When you pronounced words like chair or chicken

With all the blithe cruelty that children have

Oh how I wish I could take that back

You were there at every graduation, every concert

When I was sick you took me in your arms

And embraced me - wrapping your body around mine

And not leaving my side until my health returned

As I grew older, I started to notice you more

As a woman, as a person, as a friend

Hilarious and kind, silly and serious

The one constant in our uncertain home

I watched you pick up the pieces of crockery

And our hearts that lay on the floor

After Dad smashed them.

I lost count of all the times

I remember when we ran away to town

And stayed in the apartment of your friend

You and four small, frightened children

Trying to make him understand

But your family were oceans away

And you trapped by ropes around your heart

Your credit card, your children, you could only go back

Endure and bide your time

Years passed - in a series of storms, ever more violent

You waited - two kids left home

Then four, and you quietly made your plans

And one day you left too

Twelve years have passed

And with it, so much hurt

But you have survived and endured

And kept that wicked sense of humour

I think I understand you better now

And I love getting to know you better

My mutti - and it is the great joy of my life

To finally watch you thrive