Day 23: Advice

This one came more easily.  I like it.  I hope you like it, too.

Advice

Dear Alice,

I think my mouse is back. I hear the little skritching sounds he makes. I will have to put out traps again with some little mousie nibbles.

When I woke this morning, the sky was already bright and I could see the sparrows hopping up onto my window sill. They use it as a launching pad to get to the bird feeder. Lazy creatures, like me.

Thank you very much for the seed catalog. I am not gardening as much but they are very pleasant to read. I do spend a lot of time on the planters on my balcony. Much easier to get to.

There was a fire up the canyon last week. It stayed away from my house, and I couldn't even see it, although I got a few anxious calls. Forest fires seem so much bigger and more dangerous when you live far away from them, I guess.

I have a letter from Geeta on my desk. You'll remember that she stayed up here the summer after John died, when I thought the company would do me good. I keep meaning to write her back. She is asking me for advice about Adam and I have long since given up on advice. I think he will leave her, but that the kids will be fine. I have never seen such smart, grounded, independent children. I wish some of that would rub off on their mother. I honestly do not know what to tell her. Perhaps I will write and say that getting older does not necessarily make one wiser.

I suppose that is what makes this letter to you so difficult for me to write.

When you were born, you were one surprise after another. I did not think you would arrive with a full head of dark brown hair. Nor did I think that it would fall out and reappear (blonde, no less) in such short order.

I also thought you would take after me, for some reason. I suppose that was a reaction to having had a succession of boys. As my first and only female child it only seemed fair that I should have someone like me to be my daughter. An ally and a friend in the middle of this tide of jock straps and charlie horse punches.

As we both now know, you are not like me. You are outspoken and sensitive and far more conventional than I ever was. By high school, the only time I could convince you to leave the house was in the company of your girlfriends or with a young man.

I am thankful that you have always had good taste in young men, by the way. I include David in that, no matter what your present troubles. I can hardly claim the credit. John and I met when I was nineteen and we just fell into it--a surprise to Mother, who despaired of my ever meeting a boy at all, much less a suitable one.

Sometimes, when the meadow below the house is full of snow, I look at it and wish that I could show it to you. I mean of course that I wish I could show you what I see.

Kym will be alright, I think. I know how the demon of worry can gnaw at a mother. Especially when her only daughter is sixteen, but I have to tell you, Alice, it doesn't ever really go away.

The worst thing you can do is to try to stop her spending time with Faoud. I think she is stubborn like me. She will dig in her heels, or worse, cut you off completely.

Those are my two cents. I do hope they are worth something,

Love,

Your mother,

Joan

(C) 2011 Michael Bernstein