Q?

My roommate returned from France and brought back a loose-leaf tea named "Bitter Lemonade" from Nice. It tasted quite similar to lemonade, but in a much more of softer, kinder way than the shock the first sip of lemonade typically presents you with. The only thing bitter about it was the aching in my heart to be 17 years old in Paris smoking a cigarette with $83 in my savings account again. 

rating: 4/5

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Q: Do you admire elegance?

A: My mother is quite elegant. I have compulsions of rituals seeking her compassion; when I like to cook or when I like to sew I feel as if I am attached to her acts of tenderness that make me whole. I have an echo that plagiarizes her and it's quite a peculiar situation for my mother to be both predator and prey to my personhood. I learned from her to define myself from her denials and memory of her guide me as my matrimonial seamstress. I remember when she attempted to cook steak brittle and dry, when she fell silent from shame in the drive-through because the minimum wage worker asked her to repeat herself for the seventh time, for he could not understand that she wanted a vanilla ice cream cone I had begged her to buy. I've learned how much grief is about language, the failure of language and the grasping for it; grief is cruel and mourning can be ungentle. The refined nature of my mother has taught me to relieve myself of colossal desire to escape. Yet, I still bleed from the mouth in attempt to shield myself from her shame. There was once a time where I wanted transformation of my condition, not my nature, more than anything. Perhaps it is from this time that I feel fear when writing her letters, because my world of her is not on the surface, it's hidden in roots submerged in the depths of a sea. In my mother is a dream unfulfilled, a reminder of elegance that makes me want to give her something, so I try to be good. I hope she knows the tear stains on her birthday cards are not shed from fear, but are rather maps for navigating my admirance for her refined nature.