Dear Me,
You just told Ma that Auntie May's fawn roast is better than hers. You said that it was seasoned better.
Bite your tongue 'till it bleeds and apologize to her. Right now.
Then eat another fork-full like it's the best damned thing you've ever had.
And while you're at it, start thanking her for the meals. She don't ask for rent, for help, for nothing: show some damn gratitude. She's given up so much for you -- let so many dreams die -- and you have the stones to put her food down.
You don't even know how to cook for yourself.
You don't know nothing about anything.
But you'll learn. I promise you will.
And you're about to excuse yourself from the table, plate still full, and leave her to clean it all up.
Seriously kid, what is wrong with you? You don't even realize it. She's gonna be gone one day and then you'll have no one to clean up after you, and you're gonna feel it.
And it's gonna hurt. Everything's gonna feel heavy, and nothing in this world is gonna taste right, no matter how well-seasoned it is.
But you don't know; you're just a kid.
Only thing on your mind right now is your music.
I can understand that, and I know what's to happen, will.
So do me a favor:
Before you leave, kiss Ma goodbye.
I know you will. You always do.
I'm just asking because I can't no more, and I'm starting to forget what it was like...
Tell her I love her, and I'll see her soon.
Much Love,
You.