011609

I keep a picture of my mother and I with me when I go. Sometimes it falls free from my notebook and I examine it before I put it back in place. The photo is over twenty-one years old, and in it I am just born. She holds me in her hands and looks up into the camera with the glow of a new mother. I look at her and I am proud. I am proud of her in the same way the photo captures that she is proud of me. Without condition or accomplishment, she is proud of me.