Dear Mother,

I have inherited your eyes. Yours are a light sort of brown, the colour of the sun on the rock of a young mountain, and clear.  Mine are a very dark brown, the Lindtt 75% Dark Chocolate brown, and slightly smoky. But I have inherited your eyes. My eyes, like yours, don’t reveal much. But sometimes, when you’re watching an advertisement, or when I’m rambling about the Booker, or when we’re arguing about the future, I think I see dreams in your eyes. And curious questions about your life as it is. I bet that wasn’t what you imagined it would be like. But despite of everything, you’re weaving...all these dreams. Despite of having lived life in all its realities, you still weave a web of content for me in your imagination. And we’ll get there, I promise. Maybe not as smoothly as you think, or want maybe, but we’ll get there.

Sometimes I get angry when you want me to make your back or your legs or your head or your feet stop hurting. Because I don’t want to see you get tired, get old. But generally, I like the feeling of making your muscles relax. I feel like a part of you, and only you, in those moments. I feel like my arms are an extension of your muscles, they’re in sync, and I love the feeling. And while I’m truly grateful that you’re understanding, and open, and all those other (true) words that I use to brag about you to my friends. What I really love, is when I’m yelling at you at the top of my voice, completely out of line as you keep telling me, and in the middle you break down and say just because you’re not strong enough, doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t be. That I ought to fight for my ridiculously far off dreams not just despite of what people say, but despite of what you say. ‘Don’t you forget what’s divine in the Russian soul,’ said Joseph Conrad, ‘and that’s resignation.’ It goes without saying you’re no Russian. But you are divine in your resignation.

And what I really, really love, is shutting my eyes and lying in some ridiculously contorted position in your feet—not at, literally with my head stuck somewhere near your feet. They smell like mildly sweaty socks and your trademark closed-toe heels after a long day’s work.