I think about my mama a lot. I think about her relaxing my hair when I was younger and calling me beautiful. I think about drowning in her dresses and stealing her phone to log on to a Facebook account to throw subliminals at “haters” that would have been smoother to call bullies. I think about her laugh and how we both cannot dance, but make time to sway with each other. I think about screaming matches and joint laughs and light hearted gossip. I think about us teaching each other to be gentler - this is her to me - and me teaching her to be as brazen as she dares, and then some.

I think about her when I dress up, shop, and cook. I hear her when I clean kitchens and wipe the walls because she would have. I think of her when I write and how my script would be hers if enough exhaustion leaned into it. I think about how at a given moment, we are both probably reading a book, and how she holds my hands when I get bad news at the hospital, and I cannot go into one at all without her, because I am terrified, and her dry hands grip me better than anyone else's.

I think about her and think about my brothers and I think of her and think of empires and greatness, and bravery, and a wounded tiger. I think of chocolates, cookies, and munching, and I think of her.

Today, I am thinking about her, as a girl. Not a woman, not a wife, not my mother.

Mama used to run. I know, because I see the prizes and the medals that have seen happier lights. I can still see it in her, that lithe body and easy smile and hair that pooled way past her shoulders. She could run the world, even then. The brain of my mother is not to be rivaled, and I would argue with anyone on that. The brilliance is astounding.

She had always, always wanted to be a dentist. Well, maybe not always. After that dental appointment that wouldn't have happened without such a wicked sweet tooth. I think of how brave she had to be, and how much she fought for the life she has. I think of her in pant suits, and dreaming, wild, happy. I think of her calling boys and kicking her feet in the air.

Today, I think of her in a dress, all the light in her eyes shining as she applies for yet another thing and smashes it in the ballpark. I think of her as gentler and I wonder if she wanted three kids. And when, and if my arrival set aside a dream. If she likes who she is now, and if she maybe liked it better then.

I inherited her wanderlust, and I wonder how many more places she would have visited had we not been, had we not come along, and how many things we have impeded. Mama is so brave. So confident, so well spoken. She makes me think of royalty, so regal, and I want her to run away and snatch some of the world for herself. I have never met anyone more industrious, more capable, more magnificent.

And I know I have said all of this without mentioning beauty, but by the gods she is the most beautiful person alive, to me. I love her eyes, and the now permanent dark circles. I think of her reading, typing at her laptop, and I see brilliance. Dedication. She is mechanical, my mama. I love her nose, and it is mine, though she disagrees. I love how our eyes wrinkle the same way when we are genuinely happy, and how at peace she looks when she sleeps.

I love my mother and for loving her I love all the parts of myself that are hers.