I looked over the old family scrapbooks last night. I studied how the photos were cut into perfect circles, and the handwriting explaining them in detail was written in excitement. I felt my mother’s love pour out of those books, because that is how your sister made them.

That’s the thing about us daughters, we will always have an innate ability to see the purest form of our mother’s hearts. It’s why we suffer to let them go. These feelings don’t come easy. Sometimes I wonder if it’s because we mirror you so well that you’re disinclined to hear us. It’s hard to face yourself, isn’t it?

I read the expressions I received while on the gorgeously powdered hill of your home. You wanted answers. You held the match, and I waited, holding gasoline. Only you never lit it. Maybe it’s because you know the fire will spread to your own forest. Not just mine. Maybe that’s what we need, a forest fire. Maybe new growth can come from it. I suppose we’ll never know.

Dear Godmother, I’m waiting.