Dear Mom

Dear Mom, 

I'm enjoying a cigarette on my rooftop. I'm sorry that as an all knowing thirteen-year-old I told you how to live.  It's funny how much changes in ten years. The older I get the more I understand your stress and anxiety. I remember watching you and thinking, "why can't you just be strong for me?"

I understand now that a cigarette is a lot more enjoyable than an antidepressant. Inhale, take in my surroundings, let my arms go numb, exhale. Now I can at least imagine what it must have felt like to leave someone you loved after having been together for so long. I can imagine how it felt being the person to say, 'I want out'.

It's a crushing weight to take on and of course you wanted a goddamn cigarette.

I'm sorry I judged your affinity for boxed wine. Franzia doesn't exist in Latin America, but a terrible fifty-cent lager seems to check the same boxes. When I'm feeling fancy, I'll grab a box of Gato Negro wine. These are also helpful tools in the kit of forgetting questionable life choices.

I'm sorry I thought you were a slut for casually dating. You'd laugh (if I wasn't your daughter) at the kind of situations I've gotten myself into. I'm sorry I thought you were weak for needing to feel physically close to someone. I never realized how addictive it is. I never realized how it can help you forget about how completely insignificant you feel.

I wish I could have you here on my rooftop. I would give you a cigarette and a glass of boxed wine and we could talk about the idiots that we're... doing whatever it is we're doing with. I would give you a hug and let you know that I was wrong.

Your daughter