In the early morning hours a mother alien has been laid to rest. As I laid my own head down to sleep I just knew she had slipped away. I awoke looking washed out, and found the nightmare had reached its end.

Or, has it?

For as long as I breathe so will she? A bit of her will always look through my eyes out into the modern world which always seemed to have left her behind despite the many decades her own eyes had seen.

And a bit of her looks through my eyes, looks into my face looking into the mirror - both of us looking at the reflection she spawned; but she never really saw the real me, our eyes never met at the same point in time.

Oh, but her face was not as mean as her life had been...

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will will never hurt me. What's in a name? Be it mother or father; what do they conjure for us individually?

Those who should be dearest to us end up having nothing to do with our life, but they were the ones who taught us how to survive without love and trust.