”My name is Cecilia and I’m teaching my mom how to type so here I am randomly typing here see mom this is how you type but not really because I sort made up my own way of typing which is half traditional and half my way so its half my way or the highway and also if I write too fast I have auto correct to fix it like the previous problem but I won’t be lazy and I’ll go back to fix it now  you see now how this works love you mom you aren’t  even paying attention to me and so now im going to wrap this up and youre going to ask me to show you again but I bet that you think im writing that vignette got English why isn’t my computer putting the apostrophes on my words that need them ugh its annoying so yeah here I am and there you are on pinterest on my ipad you having the mentality that im doing homework where in the first place I was giving you a demonstration of how to type im watching law svu so are you I think the guy has multiple personalities or he was drugged im going to tell you now that this is still the demonstration so here I go!”

Here’s what happened.

In the living on a school night after dinner, kinda early. Brain-pooped from a bloody hot day at work, her still, apparently, catching up on homework because even if she has rehearsals until 7:30pm life goes on on MS campus (and we are talking 12 going 13). 

In a spur of the moment I blabber I would like to teach myself how to type with more than the 3 fingers I am using now. But she’s online doing math, I assume. The TV is on our new obsession’s marathon night, Law & Order SVU.  I am on her iPad fixing the boards of her Pinterest, she assumes. The truth is, I am taken by her profile, her eye for design, beauty, image, love, her passion for reading and books, her newly developed obsession for musicals and theatre, her secret board, everything that happens in her life during the day which I have no way of knowing because I am at work and she’s in school but I want to know. Overall, her and I were separated at birth from my umbilical cord.

She’s growing up, and it’s too fast. How do I possibly keep up with her mind, brain, emotions, heart, discoveries, secrets? That’s why I love social media, duh, when it’s done accurately it’s fascinating and this Pinterest of hers tells me a lot that she doesn’t.

Back to typing. Evidently in this whirlwind of ideas and multitasking, I missed her telling me that she will teach me ‘cause once she took online classes (it’s not on your Pinterest, when did that happen? when I wasn’t with you one summer. why didn’t you tell me? because I didn’t) 

Next thing I know, I check my email before going to bed, when she’s already asleep and I have that letter in my inbox. A heart failure. I look at her sleeping and I am in love.

For one too many times I was absent, I wasn’t present, I was distracted confiding on my alleged capacity of stretching myself so thin with doing too many things at the same time, that I missed the moment. Same as just one fucked up second in a heart surgery can lead to death.