The Prodigal Daughter Would Like to Return.

Dear Mom,

I miss you. The last time i saw you in Michigan, you said you remembered the fun we had when i was little and that you thought, based on my toddling years, that we were going to be best friends. I don't remember; i'm sorry. I wish i could because streams of nostalgia are working their way around my circulatory system lately- and i don't know where they come from. I am reaching backwards blindfolded for memories i don't have.

I spent most of my childhood years waiting wishing working to get out of Jackson as soon as i could. If i wasn't noticing how much fun we were having, it was becuase i was too busy hoping i was adopted and making plans to drop out of my family's sight as soon as i turned 18. Lo, my plans worked! -- I didn't go to Gramma's funeral or Uncle Juney's. I haven't spoken to Aunt Linda or Uncle Kenny in a decade. Aunt Del was the cool aunt; i'd like to talk to her - i just don't. I think about calling and then i think about the first conversation i had with my father as an adult. Do you remember when he got in touch after i moved here for college? He called me in October of that year. He said: "It's been a long time." "A long time" = 12 years. So when i think about calling the family, i think about stupid, trite jokes i could make to disguise the fact that i've been ignoring all of you for 10 years. I don't wanna be trite; i just don't know who any of you are. And i don't know how to ask who you are because you're my family and so much is simply assumed, as opposed to understood.

And i want you guys to know me, in particular, i want you to know me. But i don't think you'd like me very much. I mean, what if i told you about a friend of mine who smokes pot several times a day, indulges in a couple packs of cigarettes a month, hasn't paid her taxes in 3 years, is close to defaulting on her student loans and who is so scared of being left alone and knocked up that she makes excuses any time someone asks her out? What if i told you that that friend was me? Is that the kind of stuff you're talking about when you say i can tell you anything?

I'm practically a figment of your imagination. When you call, i stick to answering your questions about what i've eaten and how warm or cold it is compared to where you are. Thus, for 10 years, your daughter has told you as much information as you get from a waiter and a meteorologist and you still declare, "You're my daughter. I know you."

You knew me at a time i can't remember, before i knew myself. You still think i'm that memory. It's ok; i think of you in memory, too. And choose not to think about obesity, high blood pressure, diabetes, sore knees, achy back. I try not to think about how you didn't understand why breathing was important. Instead, i think about a story you once told me: You were nine, the only year you can remember celebrating Christmas. You got a Trina doll. You "loved that thing" so much that you brought it to school. On the way home, you dropped it while crossing the street. The doll broke; you were "so sad."

Instead of imagining who you are now, how you are now, i imagine you at nine, in the middle of the crosswalk, right before you drop Trina and i wish and wish and wish for you to catch it before it hits the ground. But it's useless- you drop your doll and 14 years later, you have a daughter who ends up dropping you. (I think, is karma that subtle? Would i be here if that doll had stayed in tact?)

Jim's father just had a stroke. Margaret's dad has been diagnosed with alcohol-related dementia. I know about impermanence; i don't wanna waste the time we have left missing you. I'll save that for when you're gone. Or maybe you'll save that for when i'm gone. We don't know how it's gonna end up.

I love you,

[the name you gave me.]