My grandmother was a dancer until her second husband bought a bracelet, a piano and a watch and gave her love all in one night too. Even though the love was young, Faye happily received everything and had for them babies—twins—and also something like a family. But I never hear them talk of that which is why, I think, Mom had me and kept trying to have someone else.

Before Mom became a mother, she was devoted to what she felt would be her only book. I’ve seen pages but don’t remember much other than her handwriting. It looked like her, like a strange perfection that I hadn’t ever seen and couldn’t relate to. It’s as if there was something the pages found in her, something she tried to hand over. But what I’ve found that she indulged seems to be an exclusive language whose meaning is apparent only after and in herself. I don’t understand why it’s never been mentioned but I don’t believe it’s because she’s forgotten. One doesn’t forget what lived in them so long.

Her privacy is probably more like loneliness. One says they’re above judgment, then turn to hide; when they’re actually just fearful of being meaningful. I’m alone so I write; if I were lonely nothing would happen. Maybe that’s how Mom’s book never became anything. There’s also the chance I came too soon, and early on asked for too much because I only thought she was my mother. When really, like all women, she was a woman with a dream of her own. I want to keep going. I want to meet her half way. And this time, I want to be the reason she writes too.