I am Little Red Riding Hood lost in the woods.

It was the gray mush between Christmas and New Year’s, the only time New York feels like finding a quiet, unlocked bedroom at a party.

On our second date, we walked 30 blocks uptown along the park to my apartment. Around Strawberry Fields, she said an injured bird has a fighting chance if it retains grip strength. She held her finger out to me, like a hooked talon, to demonstrate.

My relationship with my mother was a movie I had put on pause to leave the room, only to return to find the credits playing.

Lately, when I am asked how I’m doing (in that particular limp tone that we use for terrible things), I try on grief truisms like old jeans. I say I am fine — and also cut open. I am Little Red Riding Hood lost in the woods.

She says she likes the idea that someone only dies the last day someone says their name. I like this truism best of all.

My Mother, the Stranger Caitlin McCormick is a writer living in NY