Dear mother, I think about you every single day. I wonder what you would think of me now. What advice you would give about the problems I have. I wish so very much that I could ask you. How did you do it? How did you get through life when things looked bleak? How did you deal with your pain? I want to hear your answers while you stroke my hair and hold me tight. I want you to grab my face and tell me that your poobear will be just fine. I need to hear that you are proud of how I'm handling things considering the mental issues I go through. I'm your little engine that could, right? . . . What do I do now that you're just a memory the cancer took? Do I cry because I can't see your smile or hear your laugh when I need it most? Or do I remember how strong you thought I was and try to live up to it? If only I could ask. . .