I fear for Mother. She is probably suffering from some kind of disease. She is eating summer corn cakes somewhere dismal. She withers the fern. Her hat, velvet and feathered, is faded. I have the capacity to give to my Mother: a small sea colored stone, a mendocino mountain pear. Misty, Arizona. We’re moving there. We’ll bring the god’s eyes and all the house plants we own. We’re bringing my old baby teeth so she can make a necklace out of them. I said, okay, but you wear it, not me.