Mommy

Dear Mother,

The marks of ink I'm writing inside this card resemble, to me - or perhaps represent - the feeling of shivers down my spine when I hear the word "mom." The words now scratching across paper, tearing new thoughts into the realm of our consciousness, but I'm not writing anything we don't both already know. This holiday is like Monday morning for me, when you wake up and think - I have time to sleep in! But it's just a dream, a happy one, until you wake up and realize the mistake you made. There's no going back to Sunday.

I wish it could be reparable. I almost called you today, instead of writing this mistake of a letter, which I know you will - if not already - tear to shreds, just like you did with me and every decision I ever made. But sometimes, people can't be forgiven. Maybe that's all you are to me - a person.

I recently read "Acid for the Children", a memoir by one of the members of the band "The Red Hot Chili Peppers." In it, this band member says when he would see his mother as an adult, backstage - he's done it! He's famous, sweating and happy! Accomplished! - they would shake hands, nothing less, nothing more. I think of you, how we exchange pleasantries four times a year at most, and I think of how at least shaking hands is touching someone, having that respect for someone.

I look at all the girls posting pictures of their mothers today to social media, and I throw up in my mouth. I know - just from those stupid, useless posts - that it is bitterness, like the back wash of vomit, that resides as our reality in my mouth, gross and uncomfortable, and I know that because one time I made myself throw up and you made fun of me for it.

The word "mother" fails here, where my scraggly words across this page don't add up, don't amount to actual feeling, respect.

I could go on, but I'm tired. For once, let's make this about me, and not you, your residue, your laugh when I needed a hug.

Sincerely yours,

A