1. I love the way you eat. I say, ‘Yum. Yum. Here comes the aeroplane,’ and I place the spoon tenderly into your mouth. Your eyes, they grow wide. You close your mouth. Your fat, young lips. You seem to swallow a little and I remove the spoon to play again. You blow a quiet half raspberry. Smoothed apple, banana custard, emerges out of the red, onto your chin. I take the spoon, run the edge around your lips. At the corners of your mouth, I flick the spoon a little upwards, collect the emission and place it back where it came from. Your giggle is not modest. I smile too.
2. I love that you got drunk and lost your motorbike. I love this because I know this. I know this because you told me.
3. I love that you mend my buttons. I am nearly twenty-one and capable, probably, of doing this myself. But I ask you because I can and you do it because you can. When I pull on my pants and note the pockets intact, the fly not flapping, I know that you are my mother and I am your daughter. And that some things never change.
4. I love that you stick flowerless, leafless stems in small packets of gel. Are you an alien? Why do you do it? Every day you conceive a new mystery. I can’t thank you enough. I am constantly amazed.
5. I love your cooking. Restaurants will pour in the spices, their herbs, layer vegetable upon vegetable until an impressive tower sits on the side of the plate. All of this is meticulous, cold. You, however, will pick out a carrot and make a few brave chops. You will lovingly arrange a smiley face on the toast and add a touch of lettuce for hair. I’m not sure why you don’t own a tall, white hat. I will buy you one next Christmas.
6. I love the way you lie and thief and how you know that I don’t hate you.
7. I love that you give flowers to girls on the bus. You are old and have no teeth. Your tweed jacket has patches on the elbows and your pants, though pulled up high, are baggy at the bum, as though heavy with poo. I accept your poppies and daisies, decrepit and flattened as they sometimes are, because you are kind. I know you mean well.
8. I love the way you sing. Often it comes unexpectedly. Always it comes quietly. We will be driving, hopefully to Portside where the good choc tops reside, and the tunes will be playing and we’ll be silent as you smoke. Then a hum, an off buzz will seem to come from the speakers. I will be confused, before realising it is you. I will then seek to appear unconcerned by your discordant sounds, in the hope that you will continue a little longer. But alas, as you strive for that high note, the drone cracks and eeks and I cannot help but laugh. You are terrible and it is wonderful.
9. I love your eyes. I really, really do.
10. And your kisses. I love them too.
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