I’m trying to write a book about my mother, or Willa Cather, but she insists on being the center of attention, so I can’t write about her anymore. I want to send her to Iceland or wherever it is they keep moms quiet. Yesterday, while searching through mom’s stuff, I found a photograph of a gorgeous young man, a boy, perhaps maybe fifteen or sixteen years old. He looks so much like mom or so much like the boy she could have been when she was young. I wonder if he is her brother. I wonder if he is my dad. I wonder if he still exists. I wonder if he teaches math. Sometimes I wonder if mom was born a man, or another species altogether, like ape or wildebeest. Anyway, in this book I’m writing that’s all about mom, I use mathematical equations as a way to figure mom out, as a way to find out what she’s made of. I’ve done this because my math teacher says everything is math. Even love. Even when we want life to be about other things, he says, we can always count on zero. I hate him and I miss Amanda B. I miss the way she kept her arms around me and mom. Hugged us as if we were hers. Hugged us as if we were the biggest numbers in the universe. Hugged us and made us whole again.