Birthday Wishes

Dear Emmy- 

You were born on a Sunday—Mother’s Day, in fact.  I stayed the night with a friend and Dad called early that morning to tell me I had a new sister. (I was relieved.  A little brother was out of the question because I didn’t want to share my room with Legos or G.I. Joes.)  I got dressed in a blue and white romper that had ties at each shoulder.  Grammie drove down from Austin to take me to the hospital to meet you for the first time.  

When we got there, Mom and Dad were still debating whether to name you Ashley or Taylor.  Your umbilical cord stump was alarming.  (My six-year old brain was convinced that you were born with an olive stuck to your belly button; Mom promised me it was normal.) You looked small, but I remember being surprised at how heavy you were.  With you in my arms on your very first day, I recognized that having a sister was weighty, substantive.  And I loved you. 

Curiously, I don’t have many memories of your infancy.  I remember that you grew into an adorable toddler and an enviable preschooler.  I remember that you would sing and tap dance for anyone who would smile.  I remember Mom trying to convince you not to talk to strangers and you declaring (emphatically) that “all the people in the mall aren't my strangers, they’re MY friends!”  I remember that you were charming and entertaining and effervescent.  As you grew up, it was clear you were also brilliant.  And happy.  And energetic.  And so many other wonderful things.

It’s a crying shame, I know, but it took me twenty years to appreciate the person that you are.  Now, on your twenty-fifth birthday, I want to tell you that I love you twenty-five million times more than I did when we first met, on your birth day.  I love that you are good-natured and patient and overwhelmingly, breathtakingly optimistic. 

Being your sister is substantive; knowing you has been a saving grace in the past few years.  I love you Sister, and I wish you all the best today and always.

Sincerely,

SEE

Missing Mom

Dear John Walsh-

Its official: my mom is missing.  She was last seen boarding an airplane in San Antonio on June 2, 2012.  It was a short trip to Atlanta—only two hours long.  At some point during the flight, my mom excused herself to use the teensy-tiny airplane bathroom.  Moments later, a highly-skilled mom-impersonator came out of the bathroom wearing my mom’s clothes and took my mom’s seat.  My mom simply vanished.

After landing in Atlanta, the mom-impersonator stepped off the plane.  The mom-impersonator—we call her M.I. for short—looked and sounded like my mom.  She knew our names and seemed happy to see us.  None of us suspected that the woman we were looking at was not our mom. 

The M.I. is a professional—she imitated our mom perfectly.  In the beginning, we noticed only small discrepancies.  Where Mom wouldn’t have been caught dead in a two-piece bathing suit, the M.I. had half a dozen of them.  Where Mom never wanted to be in pictures, the M.I. was single-minded in her effort to capture hundreds of pictures or herself.  Where Mom sunburned easily, the M.I. had a twice-weekly membership at a nearby tanning salon.  Those first few weeks, the changes were noticeable, but not alarming.   

Over time, the differences became more dramatic.  The M.I. suddenly wore liquid eyeliner, refused phone calls from family because she was updating her facebook status, and donned artificial fingernails and synthetic hair pieces.  She lost about a hundred pounds.  Most disturbingly, she took to dressing in princess costumes.  Her attention-seeking behavior was unmatched even by even the angriest of fifteen-year-old girls.   

The tone of the family script also changed.  When visiting home before June of 2012, conversations with Mom went like this:

Me:     Hey Mom.

Mom:  The dead has risen!  I'm so glad you're up! 

Me:     Me too.  What's for breakfast?

Mom:  Cinnamon rolls are in the oven.  Do you want your eggs scrambled or over easy? 

Me:      Over easy please, and then I'm going to move back home. 

Since the M.I. took over, the same conversation goes like this:

Me:    Good morning Mom.

MI:     I curse your father's name every morning at this time.

Me:    I see.  Hey, do you want to go grab breakfast together?  I'm starving.

MI:     I drank a protein shake for breakfast.  I won't be hungry all day.  In fact, I've lost so much weight that my stomach has eaten itself and I no longer feel hungry.  Ever. 

Me:    That sounds like you have an eating disorder.

MI:     I'm very happy.  I've never been happier.

Despite her training, the M.I. is clearly not a convincing substitute for our mom.  Worse, the M.I. is actively revising the positive memories I had of my mom.  Two months ago, for example, the M.I. indicated that her children (including me) had never brought her any joy.  When asked what did bring her happiness, she confessed, “Well, I just got an iTunes account and I’m discovering that I really enjoy music.”

Only an M.I. could make such a ghastly statement.  I know the M.I. is doing her best to be our mom.  I try to be appreciative.  (I even sent the M.I. an iTunes gift card for Mother’s Day.) But when someone who looks like your mom and sounds like your mom, tells you that iTunes makes her happier than you do, it’s hard not to get upset.  It’s even harder to remember that it isn’t really your mom talking. 

I’m tired of all of it.  The M.I. is not my mom.  My mom did enjoy her family. I have thirty years’ worth of birthday cards and letters and pictures to prove that we gave her some measure of joy.  The M.I. is not working out.  She’s not happy.  We’re not happy.  We just need our mom back.  

If my mom had run away on June 2, 2012, I don’t think anybody would have blamed her.  It had been a hard year for her.  Perhaps more than anyone, she was entirely consumed by trying to compensate for the glaring absence of another missing family member. So, maybe Mom needed a break?  That’s fair, but she’s been gone nearly a year now, and it’s time to find her.

Since Mother’s Day is around the corner, I thought this could make a timely sort of news story you might be interested in.  My mom isn't America's most wanted.  But she's my most wanted.  And if that's ever enough for you or your show, please call me.  We have to find our mom and bring her home.

Sincerely,

SEE

Letter to a Young-ish Writer

Dear Brant Coleman-

In 2004, you gave me a copy of Letters to a Young Poet.  I read it and I still read it—it’s become a frequently-relied upon companion over the years.  It’s so highlighted and marked up and annotated that it reminds me of a used college textbook.  No matter, I love it.  Here is one of my most-underlined quotes: 

This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose...

I’ve thought a lot about this over the years.  I’ve asked myself over and over again if I have what it takes to try and say what I see and feel and love and lose.  There have been rare times when I think I can; there are more times when I think I cannot. So, must I write?  I don’t know.  But in those silent hours of the night, what is clear to me is this: Brant should write.  Brant must write. 

Unfortunately (for both of us), I can’t sponsor your first book.  I can’t make you a writer-in-residence in my 700-square foot apartment while offering you free room and board. I can’t put a pen in your hand and then wrap my hand around yours and make something beautiful appear on the page.  I can’t even tell you the story you should write.  But if I could, I would, Brant.  That’s how strongly I feel about this. 

You must write, Brant, if for no other reason than this:  I insist. 

Sincerely,

SEE