What am I so afraid to write about her? I hold every truth I made into milky white and charcoal black pearls for the wooden chest where I kept my understandings of her. She was my mother. She is. Mine. But I do not possess her. Not in the way a daughter wishes to hold her mother in her heart, in the air she breathes, in the footsteps she takes towards a distant and unknown future. She will never be mine like that. She made sure of it.