Lift

This tug-of-war often obscures what’s also happening between us. I am your mother, the first mile of your road. Me and all my obvious and hidden limitations. That means that in addition to possibly wrecking you, I have the chance to give to you what was given to me: a decent childhood, more good memories than bad, some values, a sense of a tribe, a run at happiness. You can’t imagine how seriously I take that—even as I fail you. Mothering you is the first thing of consequence that I have ever done. --Kelly Corrigan's Lift


There is only one letter I remember getting from my mom. I found it much later, about five years after the written date. It was addressed to my elementary school. Perhaps my old, bald, frightening first grade teacher slipped it to me, somehow, I don't remember. What I remember from her letter is that it was quite short, and she told me she'd make spaghetti for me when I get back. In my childhood haste of growing up between two countries, I had thought spaghetti as very American, and I loved it. She knew this and I understood. I believe she never broke her promise. I remember eating her spaghetti, those long, yellow noodles wrapped in tomato sauce. I don't think she liked it much, so she just sat there, watching me eat. She asked me if it tasted good. Of course, I told her. I don't think I wrote back to her thank you.