9:58 PM

Dear S,

It is raining in California tonight, 

which is not supposed to happen in spring.

The little plant we potted outside, yesterday, is confused.

So are the stray cats who often visit our backyard like they belong here.

But the sky.

Well, the sky is doing what it wants. 

I am sitting with my notebook, a pen

and a cup of something warm, thinking about you. 

I always do that 

when the world gets quiet 

and a little unpredictable.

Life will hand you nights when the electricity goes out.

When the dark will stop feeling romantic 

and more like a full stop.

When that happens,

I need you to promise me something, 

don’t sit in it. 

Find a candle. 

Look for one in every corner, every drawer, every stranger’s bag. 

And if you can’t find one, wait

Because someone is already walking towards you 

with matchsticks.

That is how good people arrive. 

Not announced, just… there.

The world is not fair, 

but it is occasionally breathtakingly kind.

Learn to pause for it. 

A shooting star. 

Rain in spring. 

You just have to be present enough to notice.

There is a lullaby your nana sang to me. 

My nana sang it to her. 

Somewhere back in the long chain of women who made you possible, 

someone sat in the dark 

and hummed 

until the fear went small.

We have always known how to find light. 

Not by magic. Not by luck. 

But by the quiet stubbornness of women who refused to stop looking. 

I come from them. 

You come from me.

My papa told me to be selfish 

I never understood what he meant until I became your mother. 

He meant: stay whole. 

He meant: do not give yourself away in pieces 

until there is nothing left to give. 

Keep the center of yourself sacred. 

You were not made to be small.

Be the tremor in the ocean. 

Be the ember that the volcano forgot to extinguish. 

Be the force that leaves a mark on the ground 

just by existing.

Be the sky. 

I’ll be here.

Still singing.

Love,
Mama