A/N: I wrote this for my mother’s birthday.  It’s what “P.S. I Love You” morphed into.

Photographs and Promises

I thought of you last night while I sat next to a mother-daughter duo.  They sat there gabbing and giggling as they held hands across their table.  I imagined us in their place, holding hands and sharing secrets between sips of wine.  My eyes grew misty watching them, and my heart swelled with nameless emotion.  A pang of longing overcame me.

I wanted my mommy.

I thought of you again this morning when I stumbled across an old box of photos.  Curiosity drove me to opening it and rummaging through its contents.  It was filled with pictures of an impish little redhead on a pony or dressed in her detested Sunday dresses, a valedictorian ready to take on the world, a woman with her friends and sisters, a woman in love, a woman newly married…  The unmistakable sparkle of blue eyes and fiery red hair linked together all of these girls and women.  Scrutinizing each version of her, I wondered what it would have been like to know her at any of these points in time and whether we would’ve been friends.

I reached a picture of this same woman holding a baby, marking her transition from newly wed to mother—my mother.  The distinctive cerulean eyes and flaming hair of my mother connected her to the other girls and women in the box.  I extended my fingers and tenderly brushed the face of my mother.  My touch lingered on her radiant smile and a well of tears filled my eyes, my vision growing hazy and blurring together the colors in the picture.

I flipped through more pictures, watching the woman blossom into the mother I know now.  This woman loved me so much.

Not for the first time and certainly not for the last, realization dawned on me: I never cherish you enough.  I was going to try though.  I would try to not get cross with you or brush you away.  I was going to be a better daughter.  I was going to be the daughter you deserved.

The moment was broken when you yelled out from the other side of the house that I needed to do my chores.  Hastily I brushed away my tears and dropped back into the box the stack of photos cradled in my hands.  I jammed the box back into the cupboard and rushed out of the room, crying for you to hold on a moment.  As the vehement words spilled out of my mouth, I took into account the sting of my tone and bit my tongue.

Didn’t I just promise?  If I went back on my word, how would I ever come closer to sitting at a table with you gabbing and holding hands like that mother and daughter duo of last night?

But I couldn’t take back the fierceness of my tone.  I’d already hurt you, like the countless times before and like the countless times I probably will again.  My heart grew heavy in bitter recognition of my failure, and I dropped my head in defeat.

I will never be the daughter you deserve, but I can keep trying to be a better daughter.