She was convinced that I hated her when I was 9 months old. She was convinced that I hated her when I was three years old. She was convinced that I hated her when I was 14 years old. She is still convinced that I hate her. 

She has given me the same dream catcher three Christmases in a row. She has pounds of travel memorabilia in her computer room. She has my grandfather’s cameras and pipes in her garage. She has six unopened bed comforters in her attic. 

When I was 9 years old, she gave me a mink scarf with three minks sewn together with their claws attached to their reconstructed feet. 

She used to give her two cats shots to keep them alive once they were 19 years old. In January, she held her cat in her arms as he wailed himself to his death.

She doesn't waste food. She makes smoothies out of molding berries. Last Christmas she ate a piece of key lime pie as she pulled her grandchildren’s hair out of it after it fell on the living room carpet. She goes grocery shopping every day. She collapsed to the floor once when she realized that she was out of sour cream.

She doesn’t believe in God, but she would never tell her church that.

She has lived alone for the past 23 years. She killed a copperhead snake once in her garage with a shovel. When she was taking care of my brother and I, she picked a dead bunny from the pool with her thumb and middle finger.

My mother told me that when I was a few months old and screaming, she told her to pay no attention- that I was manipulating her.

Every time I visit her, she shows me all her t-shirts and her braids from when she was 12. They still smell like shampoo.