Mom. Mommy. I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve missed you. I’ve written these seven letters to you, one each day beginning on my 47th birthday. Just like every greeting card says, thank you for sacrificing so much for my benefit. Thank you for tearing off pieces of your flesh, breaking them down, and regurgitating into my gullet so that I may have life.
As I step into this epistolary abyss, I’m not sure what will be said but I’m hoping you’ll not only read these words and feel closer to your only child but that you’ll find some solace in the knowledge that I’ve made it this far and everything really is okay. I’m still here, drawing breath, despite your greatest fears.
First, lemme acknowledge that I know it wasn’t ever easy. Not as a single mother. Not in the Detroit ghetto. Not being who you are (an immigrant, an eldest daughter, a survivor). Not being who I am (a hypersensate, over-achieving owner of a smart mouth and smarter fingers). I don’t need to have borne nor raised small humans to appreciate what your life has been and what you have done. So hear me when I say, first and foremost, I may not know you but I see you.
So, wherever you are on the planet at this moment, this is me reaching across the Internet because it’s the only and best gift I have to give.