Ma,
Remember when we went for a vacation to the mountains and found those little blue flowers by the side of the road? They were everywhere but no one knew what they were called. To be without a name is to survive recognition, to live without a name is to touch without being touched. I didn’t know that then. We kept asking everyone. They were beautiful flowers, although it is only their namelessness that makes them beautiful in my memory. In my mind only the symbolic survives. I was never one for flowers, you are all for them. Because all names are illusions, it is strange and perhaps fitting that this anonymity would forge a fragile thread of recognition between two women as estranged as us.
