For Mother's Day

Dear Mom,

I remember sitting on your lap at dinner, falling alseep against you, and listening to your laughter resonate within your chest. How it sounded different with my ear pressed up against your skin. Perhaps listening that way, I could hear how your own laughter sounded to you, rich and warm.

And your skin always smelled like warm sun. It still does.

I hope you know that I brag about you to my friends, to anyone who asks. I hear that you brag about me quite a bit. I guess it's just another way we're images of each other.

And my skin is turning all freckle-y, like yours. And living in Seattle, I feel like I must be walking in your steps some of the time. Ghost steps from three decades earlier.

I love how much fun we can still have together, even if you don't like any (read: fall asleep watching) of the movies I show you these days. I love that conversations on the phone with you always last just about 74 minutes.

You should come over more often. Just to hang out. And you should call more often. Just to chat.

I'd love it.

I know you are having a wonderful time. Scope out the Southern Cross for me. Tango your heart out. I can't wait to hear all of your details when you get home. I especially like the detials.

Love,
Two Shoes