Dear Mom, Today would be your birthday. If you were alive, I'd spend more than I could but not as much as I should to try to buy your love and prove that I was good enough but it wouldn't have worked. I was your last baby, I was the surprise. I miss the rhythm of your heels and I miss the way you smell. But I can't miss your hugs, or your gentle touch, or you holding me close, because I don't have those memories, you know. You so untouchable, so just the tableau. You were the elegant woman everyone wanted to know. I have your taste, my pearl studs and Chanel and I see I am your daughter. But even now you're the cold beauty, the one they remember, the star of the show. Even I can tell. For good or for bad, when I look in the mirror, I see that I'm becoming my own mother, the one I never had. This could be good, because maybe, finally, from one mom to another, I'll take care of myself if I am my own mother. Today would be your birthday. if you were still alive. So for all the times you called while I was writing and asked, "Are you writing that for me?" and I never was, not at any call, and what it was didn't rhyme, well, this one is for you, but it hardly rhymes at all. ~XineAnn