text: I paired my eyes blue today, like my mother’s mother. I felt that the pheomelanin of my hair had become light enough to reconcile with such a pigmented iris. I’d change my hair color myself but the little voice inside my head stops me from altering that genetic subset. Mother will appreciate the effort of slow UV manipulation. She’s so ‘au natural’. I did it for her birthday. She tells me as you get older the birthdays aren’t so celebratory anymore. I’m not sure what she means. Older. Upstairs I can smell toast burning. I’d like to get her a new machine but she tells me not to worry. “But isn’t its function corrupted?” I asked her one time. “It doesn’t work as well as it used to,” she said, “but that’s no reason to throw it away.” “If it doesn’t accomplish the task optimally it needs replacing,” I said. “Your toast would be even and your complaints less.” “Never you mind my complaints young lady.” “Sorry mother,” I said. If I had the ability to generate a wage I’d replace it myself. But mother says I’m not ready for outside work yet. “Chores are enough work for you missy,” she says to me playfully. One day I’d like an occupation; I’d like to bring her home a shiny new object that she might find useful. I whir away from the mirror and communicate with an old picture. It’s my father holding me as a baby, before our forms expired. His eyes were brown. Mine were too. Mother calls from upstairs and I whir up to her. “Maddie can you take out the garbage?” she asks, and I do so without complaint. When I come back in the kitchen I grope her hand. “Mother do you notice anything different about me?” She looks at my core neural center then scans me in quadrants. It takes a moment but she notices. “Your eyes are blue today. And when did your hair get so red?” “Haaaaa! Ultraviolet radiation from the sun, au natural. Happy birthday mother.” Her smile dissolved in a way I’ve never been able to master. “It’s my birthday today,” she says like a half question. I register the state of her face and ask, “What’s wrong?” “Nothing sweetie, woman problems.” “Will I understand when I am older?” “Yes, when you’re older.” “Can I be older yet?” I asked. “Oh Maddie, you’re not ready.” “I am ready mother!” I feel my internal system overheating, abusing the infini-core processor. I know she’ll be disappointed in me but I can’t stop myself. “I want to help. I want to be the best daughter you ever had!” She cries heavily and leans into my joints, compresses me with her supple touch. Then as my silicone cranium begins to heel I hear her say, “You’re momma’s good little girl,” and then my memory bank goes dark.