I miss the burger trays and the grease on my fingers when my mother would bring us to the zoo. I miss the large maple leaves in fall when there's a chill in the air, but the blackberries are still ripe.

I miss reaching out for my mother when I'd stumble on the concrete, I miss baking cookies in the small rental house we lived in. I still miss the rainy evenings on the broken couch where we watched movies together and made popcorn.

I miss the way she smelled after she picked me up from my dad's house, I miss the way she hugged me every time. I miss feeling adequate, I miss feeling safe. I miss feeling like Im free, instead of caged up in my own emotions.

I miss my memory of her, but not her.

I miss the idea of my mother, but not mother.

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