Dear Lucy,
I am writing you this in case I forget what it is like to be seventeen and the friction between us could be issued as a warning on the local news of a very arid town. Or in case you hate me as all children seem to. When it comes to boys don’t be the girl who tries to capture them. They’re not dolls. Don’t be like your mother was and don’t break the hearts because you can. Don’t rip the flesh from the bone because you are bored or hurting. Don’t lick your fingers afterward. Don’t press your own hurt on the people around you. If a boy ever squirts ketchup in your hair do not scream spread some all over his white shirt and smile. When you go home and wash and still smell like processed tomatoes know that I am proud of you. Don’t get hard after the first boy leaves you don’t callous after the second. Keep going. Keep doing whatever it is that you do. Once I walked four miles barefoot and crying listening to Prince’s I Wanna Be Your Lover because I wouldn’t let a boy in the way he wanted and so he left. I was not myself for months after that. I had to die to be reborn again. I had to be reborn again so you would not have to die. What I mean to say is. I hope no one ever picks at your heart the way I fork the remains of a cheesecake at dinner. Someone will though. And it will hurt like hell and it will kill me that all I can do is be there for you. So I’m here. Or. I will be. Don’t blame the new boy for the last one’s mistakes. This is not fair to him. Or to your heart. When the right boy comes you will know. My God. You will know. Love until you burst at the seams. Until it is all that you are. Because. It is what you are made from.
Love and love and love and love.
Your momma
I am writing you this in case I forget what it is like to be seventeen and the friction between us could be issued as a warning on the local news of a very arid town. Or in case you hate me as all children seem to. When it comes to boys don’t be the girl who tries to capture them. They’re not dolls. Don’t be like your mother was and don’t break the hearts because you can. Don’t rip the flesh from the bone because you are bored or hurting. Don’t lick your fingers afterward. Don’t press your own hurt on the people around you. If a boy ever squirts ketchup in your hair do not scream spread some all over his white shirt and smile. When you go home and wash and still smell like processed tomatoes know that I am proud of you. Don’t get hard after the first boy leaves you don’t callous after the second. Keep going. Keep doing whatever it is that you do. Once I walked four miles barefoot and crying listening to Prince’s I Wanna Be Your Lover because I wouldn’t let a boy in the way he wanted and so he left. I was not myself for months after that. I had to die to be reborn again. I had to be reborn again so you would not have to die. What I mean to say is. I hope no one ever picks at your heart the way I fork the remains of a cheesecake at dinner. Someone will though. And it will hurt like hell and it will kill me that all I can do is be there for you. So I’m here. Or. I will be. Don’t blame the new boy for the last one’s mistakes. This is not fair to him. Or to your heart. When the right boy comes you will know. My God. You will know. Love until you burst at the seams. Until it is all that you are. Because. It is what you are made from.
Love and love and love and love.
Your momma