In my early 30s, I move into a house across the street from where I grew up.

My mother is now suffering from Alzheimer's.

Sometimes she's lucid and my same wonderful mommy.

Other times she acts like I'm a stranger or hates me.

I'm not sure what to do with myself.

So I sit on the floor in my barely furnished living room and open up all boxes of stuff

that I carry over from mommies.

I don't know what I'm looking for exactly.

Maybe some order.

Maybe a braver part of myself.

I pick out and open down below.

The postmark shows it was addressed to me back when I was starting high school.

I don't remember reading it during the blur of my teenage years.

Inside is a cream colored card, crane stationery, the kind of heavyweight linen paper I love.

It's covered in graceful, sloping cursive spanning both sides of the card.

I skip down to the end and read the elegant signature.

Natalie transport.

She congratulates me for acceptance into the Bronx High School of Science.

I read, I know you're destined for great things.

I can't wait to see what comes next for you.

I am stunned to remember how much she believed in me.

Why is it so hard for me to feel it about myself?

...