How to Find a Time Machine

Dear Mom,

At thirty-one, you dreamed of me,

in the aftermath of my lost sibling.

You prayed and wept and promised peace.

And in return, you were granted a baby in pink.

At thirty-four, you nurtured me,

in the wake of the "Terrible Twos" we were experiencing.

You played and read and encouraged my dreams.

And in return, I dreamt big things.

At forty-five, you worried for me.

You watched me chase and people-please,

and wiped my tears while whispering softly:

"The story doesn't end here, darling."

At twenty-two, I graduated college,

the accomplishment you'd always wanted for me.

I hugged you and Dad goodbye excitedly,

right before I moved halfway across the country.

You smiled through the tears and grit your teeth

to keep the pain inside, selflessly.

At twenty-six, I experienced heartache,

and thought of you often.

Sometimes I'd call you and sob,

"I'm moving home."

But because you inspired me to embrace change,

adventure,

and, of course, my dreams,

you swallowed your tears

to remind me that I had built a life away from home;

a life I could not leave.

At twenty-nine, my heart throbs,

for the years with you

that I took for granted.

So now I write this letter,

pleading for you to tell me

how to find a time machine.

I wish I could return

to when I was terribly two,

or dreadfully thirteen,

or even simply your miracle baby in pink.

Love always,

Kelsey