I had a dream about you last night. It was very corporeal. I woke up realizing that the loss of your form is something I perhaps have not death with, and not even realized that I must.
You were my mother. And our relationship was--no, is--essentially corporeal. As I witness my female friends yearn to carry children under their hearts, and see that burden change their bodies and their philosophies, I realize how my presence in you changed your body and your self. And now your body is no longer. The one that I altered with my existence. The idea that you yearned for that transformation is comforting, oddly, and yet also makes me miss you more.
When you were born, you were born with a piece of me already there. And so was your birth mother with a piece of you. The fact that she gave you up for adoption, that the two of us never met her, does nothing to disrupt the Matryoshka path to her, or the women before her. One after another, tumbling out of one another after the creaking, stubborn release that makes ones face twist with effort. And it's hard to conceive of something that is so mighty yet delicate as thin birch.
