MaiLynn worries that she cannot fill the space of a writer’s bio with prestigious alma matters, names of literary publications, forthcoming books, prizes, titles of grandeur. She has only the pieces of her writing: pages made from paragraphs made from sentences made from words made from letters made from memories, all of them crafted like her little baby who started as a single cell and grew and grew and grew until, out of nowhere (out of pain, heartbreak, joy, love, substantial allotments of time), the child was big and strong and ready – maybe a little nervous, maybe a little unsure, but ready – to sail away from her Mother. Oh, Mother, who sometimes embarrasses her, who has not the qualifications nor the education of the parents of her peers, who says silly things from time to time; but Mother, who she knows cares for her so. Mother who had courage to raise her, be her best, speak her truth, and try, with both failure and success, to stand tall among a field of wildflowers. Shouldn’t that be enough?