Letters

Dear Mommy,
When I was constructed in your womb,
you airbrushed my features,
sand blew my skin,
shaped my eyes into light brown hazards.

You told me of the music,
the books you read me,
and the pickle you ate for which I made you pay dearly.

I have this thing with guilt:
I cling to it like the father I never had.

I never forget the things I've done to wrong you,
even when I was too young to know the difference.

The pickle,
the fact that I was walking long before I'd let you see,
the fact that I was having sex long before I'd let you know about it,
before I even knew what I was doing.

The first time I saw you cry
I thought you were joking.

We're good at joking these days,
you're good at making me feel nothing bad can touch me.

Sitting in the same room causes a force-field impenetrable by any problem
and your smile:
daylight in a desert storm,
a jewel adorning and Egyptian temple.

I see your face in my mirror daily,
dress up in Lane Bryant jewelry
just to look a little more like you.

It makes sense,
you raising me in Denver.
The only place I know where there is sunshine
almost every time it rains.
Teaches you to see beauty through clouds.

You see beauty through clouds mother,
and have taught me to do the same.

My heart has been so cloudy lately.
So clogged with the things I'm afraid of doing,
doors I'm afraid to leave open,
afraid to see who will walk through,
what they'll carrry.

But you, mother,
are such a good reason not to fear.
I know I'll always have a force-field to return home to.