Today I woke up blue, or after writing an 11 pages handwritten letter to my daughter for her coming birthday made me blue. I wonder where such a cliché of time went to. I wonder if I have been taking advantage of my life thoroughly. Thinking of my daughter always makes me nostalgic. Probably the ineluctable pass of time. The second law of thermodynamic applied to the fullest. Nothing can return where it started.
In theory all is good; I am so proud of her and her accomplishments. I should be proud of being her mama, and I am, because of her, not me. I miss her at the same time I miss my mom. I think the hormones are doing part of the trick again.
Even though I told my daughter that the letter was just for her, I took photos of each page, just in case it’s lost in the mail. It felt too fragile to send it with the possibility of disappearing with one mishap of the postal service, when I spent the whole morning writing it.
And here I am toying with the idea to publish it in thumbnails. But I won’t, even when I can’t help to tell the world how much I love you, Matilde.