I am amazed each time I am reminded how little my mother knows about me. Even now, I am disconcerted by her ignorance about me, even something as simple as my favorite color or style, my quirky habits and idiosyncrasies. For twelve years, nearly thirteen she's known how much I dislike surprises especially those involving people and places.

What must I do for her to understand?

I make my feeling so clear, I am cruel and insensitive about it. I might as well paint my thoughts in red on the street outside her window. Yet, even then she wouldn't see it for what it is and what my words represent.