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    A Letter To My Mom

    By Rafy Evans

    Right now, I just needed to thank my mom.

    You sent me three photos of the Pride parade in Orlando that happened a few weeks ago. One of the people in the crowd. One of the horses that walked behind you. One of two drag queens sitting on the back of a pick-up truck waving.

    You didn’t know that it meant something to send me those pictures. I know a lot of people’s moms wouldn’t have done that. Just by sending those photos, you showed me that you’re accepting of everyone.

    We talked about Pulse the day it happened. We talked about Orlando the day it happened. We talk about Orlando every time we talk and how its different now. Different in a better way. The Pride parade had more participants than any other parade in Orlando. Just by saying that, and your choice to walk in it, you made me remember that you never shy away from doing what’s right.

    You facetimed me this evening to talk about the election. We talked briefly on the Wednesday after Election Day, but you wanted to hear what I had to say about it. I’ve always been vocal about what I believe in. I think I get that from you. You’ve always wanted me to speak out against things I disagreed with. You always said I’d make a great lawyer.

    I thought you might be disappointed in my choice to be a writer. But instead, you ask me about my projects every time we talk. You ask about my website, and put $16 in my bank account to pay the monthly bill for my portfolio. You’ve started to realize that’s how I’m going to get a job.

    You don’t talk about how much you miss me, probably because you know its worse for me to hear that. I’d rather not think about how many weeks its been since I’ve been in our room. That’s right. Our room. I used to hate sharing a room with you. I liked my own space. But now that I only see you for two months out of the year, sharing a room is more than fine.

    You listen to my rants. You listen to my side of the story. You believe me when I tell you something. That’s a luxury I haven’t had in a long time.

    I’ve yet to encounter another mother/daughter relationship like ours. You listen to me, like a student to a teacher. I’ve always liked that you’ve let me try to educate you on certain things that you admit you don’t know the most about.

    You read books after I read them. You let me read you the last six pages of a book you haven’t read just because I’m crying and it’s beautiful language and I have to read it to someone even if you don’t know what’s happening in the book. You ended up reading that book.

    You confide in me. You share your secrets with me. I share mine with you. Things have gotten a lot better. Senior year I’d say they really got better. Those months that we lived together every day really made the difference. Those were important months. Filled will college applications and mental breakdowns, but important nonetheless.

    I love you, mom. I would say that I don’t tell you that enough, but I think I say it just the right amount. I couldn’t think of anything to write lately, then you reminded me that a thank you is all you need to say sometimes.