Just something simple, something sentimental. It's not all truthful, but I guess there are autobiographical elements in here in some places. For all the people out there who appreciate that special somebody; the woman who brought them into the world. (Oh my, I've gone all mushy! Ah well, I guess there's a time and a place. Her. Now.) R&R if you like, though I don't hold much hope because nobody ever reviews people like me. ;)

Fade

I just need to say,

Do you remember when I was fifteen, young and bright and light-limbed, with a mop of unruly hair and an excuse for everything? Do you remember the time you smelt the smoke in my bedroom? I had been planning to smoke that cigarette for six weeks before I finally lit it, watched with a kind of terrified delight as the smoke from the tip swirled upwards and gathered on the ceiling like a blanket of high-rise fog. Every time I’d planned to do it before - to light it, that is - you had come home before I had even managed to secure the lighter. You know, the time you caught me was the first time I had even been out of the room with the intention of lighting the damn thing and managed to gather the matches? You told me that I was a disgrace, you told me that I was a fool to even think I would have been able to get away with it, and you told me that you would never let me have a cigarette in my hand again, burning or otherwise. The only thing I could think that night, while I cried myself into a sullen sleep, was that I should have been smart enough to open the window.

Five years later, when I was twenty, do you remember how we sat on the balcony of your tiny city apartment, gazing out across the cityscape you’d come to call home, and how you’d handed me a cigarette? You gave it to me, freely and willingly, and we smoked until the sticks were gone, and then drank so much alcohol we couldn’t see straight. I remember that day, because it was the day I finally realised how much I loved you.

Do you remember when I was seven, Mum, and you gave me my first home-baked haircut? You sat me down in front of the television, turned the volume up on the music channel and danced around me with the scissors in your hands. The haircut wasn’t straight, and neither was your dancing, and if I hadn’t enjoyed the sight of you falling into the kitchen cabinets so much I might have cried when the kids at school called me ‘Noodle-head’ afterwards. You told me that I should never run with scissors, that I should never cut my own hair, and that I should be grateful you had the time to spend with me as you did. I hated you for that.

When I was eighteen, I bought my own haircut, and the man in the ‘dressers fixed my hair up wonderfully. Coiffed and curled in every possible direction, when I came home you only laughed at me. I hated you more, then, until I’d seen what that man had done, until I realised that the only curls I had were at the front. I cried more that night about my appearance than I’ve ever cried about it before. You told me that it would be okay, that it would grow back, but all I could do was hate you because you hadn’t cut my hair yourself.

I know I’ll never be able to explain myself, but I also know that I’ll never have to explain myself to you. When I was stung by my first bee, you caught it for me with a glass and paper and showed me how dead it was now that it had hurt me - and then you held me while I cried. You bought me my first book, read it to me by firelight and described the pictures to me because it was too dark for me to see them. You told me that no matter what I did I would never be able to have everything that I wanted, but you told me to aim for the stars. And only I knew what you meant when you said “Fly high”.

Have you ever wondered if being a single mother would affect how you brought your child up? Did you ever panic when a letter addressed to the ‘Parents of Alice Turner’ came through the post, ever wonder if they would accept just her mother? I always wondered if you worried, but when I found your liquor cabinet I knew that it didn’t matter. You had found your strength, and you had found a way to pass it on to me. It didn’t matter whether you were on your own, because you were strong. It didn’t matter if you were scared, because you were brave. It didn’t matter if you were unable to cope, because you had me.

I guess what I’m trying to say, in this awfully long-winded way, is that just because you can read a book, it doesn’t mean the pictures are unnecessary. Just because you know me inside out, know how much I love you, it doesn’t mean I don’t have to tell you. Just because you can read my mind, it doesn’t mean you have to.

I don’t have any secrets from you. You keep your secrets locked up with your drinks, and the beauty of that is that I don’t need to see them. Do you remember when I was four, and you asked me whether I wanted to move away from the city? I told you that I didn’t want to move away from the city because that was where women met men and how children got fathers. You asked me if that was what I wanted, a father, and I - in my naivety - said yes. We stayed in the city because I wanted to. We stayed in our apartment because I didn’t want to leave. Now, you’re leaving the city because you say I don’t need you any more.

We both know that’s not true. You’re leaving the city because you’re allowing me to spread my wings and fly. And Mum, know that I will return the favour.

No matter where you go, we’ll always be on that balcony with our cigarettes, and you’ll always be telling me that it will grow back. And we both know that I won’t always be angry at you for letting me get my own hair cut. It’ll fade, but the question is: do we really want it to? I don’t want my life to fade; I love you.