I write. She's a Writer.

I received these lovely words from my 14 year old daughter on Mother's Day.

It's tradition, on days like these, to buy pretty things and put them in a box. You wanted a card, a poem and something else that I can't remember. Here's the card and something else approaching a poem, and a gift (flowers). I didn't have any pretty things to put in a box, but here are some anyway:

a piece of broken green glass, lying on the sidewalk like a forgotten emerald; rows and rows of beads, crystals and pearls and cat's eye, sparkling and glowing and shimmering; the feeling of sunlight on your eyelids, which somehow feels better then anywhere else; the smell of lilacs, or fresh baked cookies; the feeling of satisfaction when something you cook turns out perfectly; the warm humidity of a summer evening, when the sky is still light and you can smell all the green things living; that feeling of safety when you're in your warm, lit house with the snow flurrying down outside; a dog I saw leap out of a pond, shake himself off and run to his master with a stick clenched in his mouth, radiating satisfaction and joy; brownies; this time of year when the streets are chartreuse tunnels; the shock of diving into the lake and the blessed, crisp cold; a bluebell.

Some of these are already yours, and some I'm trying to give to you. I love you so much Mom. You were the one who taught me to read, to cook, to think before I freaked out, to make a perfect steak sauce. You taught me maturity, manners, how to and how not to put on make-up, and so many other things, like how to yell, how to give way when I should, responsibility and love.

You've supported me and loved me forever; backwards and forwards.

This is for you, Mom. Thank you so much for the 14 years you've loved me and been there for me, whether or not I thought I needed it. I love you so much. Thank you. Love, Samantha.

She's 14 years old.

And I have loved her forever. Backwards and forwards.