a very honest mother's day letter

Mom,

I remember having clean clothes to wear every day growing up, but I never remember thanking you for that. 

There was one wet Fall day... I was so angry at  you—I can't remember why—and I stormed out of the house, into the garage. A few minutes later, you followed and told me to hold out my hand. You dropped a peppermint into my selfish palm—a peace offering. I sneered, stuffed it back into your hands and walked off into the woods, a quarter-mile into the forest to my fort. 

I was stuck inside my anger, the way pieces got stuck in the Candy Land gumdrop squares. You liked Queen Frostine and I liked Princess Lolli. Or maybe I liked both, and you tolerated the game just because you loved me. 

When you wouldn't let me shave my hairless legs, I told you I hated you. 

My chest was flat and I took it out on you.

I said I didn't want to be a "housewife" and, at different points in time, I yearned to be a hairdresser, an FBI agent, Julia Roberts. You told me I looked time her. You told me I could be anything I wanted to be. 

In the haze of adolescence, I couldn't feel anything beyond my own fingertips. I had a sharp tongue, and I used it.


I'm sorry. 

I eat uncooked pasta now. You always did that while making us dinner. 

I find peace in yoga classes, the same ones Dad and I would make fun of you for. I drink chamomile tea.

On occasion, I stand in the kitchen with one foot firmly on the ground, the other propped against the inside of my knee—your signature stance.

I see you reflected in a handful of my habits, in ways that might have annoyed me when I was younger—in ways that I love now, because I feel like you are always with me.

You're wonderful, and I love you, and I'm so happy to have you.