heedlessly, actually, as if this universal and mundane moniker were a pet name bestowed upon me by my beloved. In this same context, I also love “mommy.” And — especially (I confess) — “mama,” which, when carelessly employed by an 11-year-old who can now say “shit,” holds within its two mirrored syllables a time, not so very long ago but seemingly in another epoch, when that selfsame child was learning to differentiate who in her tiny universe was who.
Read the whole story at New York Magazine
