"I need to take a shower
before doing anything else,"
I inform my mother as she unlocks
the door to our tiny, temporary
studio apartment of a home.

"That's what you teenagers get
for trying to wash your hair
with Chinese food," she laughed.

As I slipped into the bathroom
and out of my clothes I answered,
"That's not how it happened!"
I tried to brush my hair clumped together
with sweat and sweet and sour sauce
from last night's left over dinner on the road.

The brush couldn't get through
the mess so I let the water
have its way with my brunette locks
until finally the suds and conditioner
were able to work it out for me.

As the soap made its way
down my porcelain skin I ponder
why teenagers have to be so bold

and what I've gotten myself into
this time. When the sound of bottles
crashing from the shelf pulls me
from my thoughts I turn the water off
and pull on my Joe Boxer shorts and
the XXL T-shirt swallows my frail frame;
she asks if I still smell like fried rice.

"I hope not," I giggle and crawl into bed,
when we turn off the light the room
is filled with two words said by both of us
in unison and dreams of being a
mother myself someday fill my head.

~ Good night

I know you.

You are so much
stronger than this.

I keep thinking that I can write you a letter
with so much love and beauty on the page that
you will not wonder why it never worked
quite so well with anyone else. My pen
has grown to be quite haughty,
she swears it's a task she can
skillfully complete and yet
here we are three years later
and still no where close.

I only remember you as lyrics whispered while waiting for Sleep
to come. I remember you as laughter in a group of close knit strangers
and a joke with authority so apathetic you were a new face
all over again by the time morning came back around.
I remember you as my summer love, autumn mistakes, and
winter lessons. You knew I meant the words "forever and always"
because you always love your first love forever.

But I still wonder,
sometimes,
if you have any memories
of me
left.