the letter

My mom and I have a less than perfect relationship. Last night I decided to write a small story to for her. I thought I would share it, in hope for some feed back, since I'm a pussy and I don't know if I want to give it to her yet or not...
I call it, To her...

I look closely in the mirror, squinting at myself. My eyes are a deep green, but they still had a slight glimmer in them. I stand there searching, almost longing to see something that isn’t there. I smooth back my hair, like a mother does with a small child. After a while I get frustrated of looking and just stare into my own eyes. I think back to what my grandmother said sometime ago. “You know you look just like your mother,” she stated. I remember glaring at her in disbelief. My mother just laughed from the other room. “She has so much more of her father in her, than she does of me,” she said stopping any debate on the subject. I guess I couldn’t argue with her on that. Every time I gazed at myself I couldn’t help but to agree with this statement. I honestly couldn’t see any resemblance between us. As much as I tried, I couldn’t. As many days, even months I had done this I still didn’t see it. Part of me was saddened by this, almost broken. She was my mom; I was supposed to at least kind of resemble her. Yet, I felt like I looked nothing like her. I let a tear slip slowly down my cheek. I furrowed my eyebrows in frustration and lay down in my bed. I pick up one of the scrapbooks she made me years earlier, smoothing my hand over the cover. The girl I use to be seems so much more hopeful then I ever remember being. I always remember being so dreadfully shy. I would hide behind adults, to afraid of the world around me. She would always get upset and push me out from behind her, telling me to go and play. She would tell me not to be afraid of all of this. Yet, I would always wend up slinking back. I laugh a little to myself thinking about how different I am now. Thinking about how head strong, stubborn and outgoing I have become. Even though to this day I still crave her attention and approval. I think about the long hard days I’ve had to force myself through. How they have caused bags to form under my eyes. The soft lines on my face from constant state of worry I am always in. Sometimes I wonder if she even thinks about me here. I wonder if she’ll ever know how much I’ve had to go through. I wonder if she’ll ever really know me or if I’ll ever really know her. Sometimes I feel like I know nothing about her. I know the simple things. The general childhood stories and heart breaks she once had. I remember the way she was when it was just her and me. I know her eyes to a tee. I know how they become a rich, dark brown when she is upset or angry. When she’s happy, they have almost a glitter effect from the golden flecks scattered in them. What I don’t know a lot of it the person she is now. I don’t know how she feels, who she is beyond being a mother or how she thinks. I don’t even know her favorite color or food. I know that this is my fault; I pushed her away after I moved. I feel like I pushed her so far away that I don’t even really know her anymore. Sometimes I wonder why I pushed so hard to be independent. The whole time I wanted to hide behind her, knowing that she’d just push me back out like she use to do when I was a child. I wanted so much for her to love me. I didn’t even realize that by pushing her away I was slowly loosing her. She was even loosing me. Everything she once knew about me had changed, as well as everything I had known of her. I’ve heard that you can never really know someone. Part of me just wishes this wasn’t true with her. As I flip through pages of birthdays and endless holidays I linger on one page. My breath ceases for just a second as I glare at a picture of her from years ago when I was young. The picture is simple and candid. She’s just standing there at an angle looking off at someone outside of the picture. She looks seemingly unaware of her surroundings or of any picture being taken. Her hand is in her back pocket. She is wearing a simple t-shirt and shorts, showing her tan skin. Her short hair looked tousled, as if blown from the wind. The brown curls seemed to form perfect ringlets. She has a genuine smile on her face. The thing that seems to entrance me is that she is glowing. I remember her smile so fondly. Her happiness would radiate onto you. She is so beautiful when she is truly happy. She honestly brightens up the room. I have heard the same compliments from people. It clicks with me that this is what I got from her. It’s the thing that makes her part of me. I want so badly to call her and tell her as ridiculous as that sounds. I ponder what it would feel like if she knew my joy right now. If she would feel the same way I do. I wonder from time to time what it would feel like if she never knew how much I truly loved her. If she knew that every time I clawed my way back up from the bottom that I was doing it for her too. That I was trying to prove that not only could I do it, but that she was a good mother as well. That she had raised me right and I was happy she was my mom. I hope that I can be as strong as a woman as she is and even close to as good as a mother one day. I wanted her to know she could be proud of herself for everything she has done. One day she could even be proud of me for all that I have accomplished, even though I make mistakes. Knowing that I had accomplished all of this not out of vain reasoning, but to show and prove to her how much I loved her.