Dear Journal,

There's a big storm coming through right now, and since its hard to sleep I decided to write in you. I hope Marinette is okay. The rain is coming down so hard I can't even see the lights of the Eiffel Tower.

Anyway, I wanted to write down some memories since writing about my mother is easier then talking about her.

When I was little we would take a vacation every year to America, and Father would rent this big cabin in the woods with a stream running through the backyard. Since I love being outside, this was a little kids dream. Maybe my love of helping Papa Dupain make pies started early because I would sit on the riverbank for hours, happily making mud pies. I would fill my small red bucket with dirt about halfway full then scoop water from the stream. I wasn't always patient waiting for the pie to dry in the sun then I would get upset if one would fall in the river. Mother was always there to comfort me telling me the mud liked being in the water with its friends the rocks in the water. How did she always know how to make me feel better?

I even made a stand one year, hoping someone would come along and buy my mudpies, but alas that didn't happen. Mother suggested we make a real mud pie and we would make chocolate pudding and put it with the graham cracker crust, with crushed up Oreo's. Oh, those were the good old days. Today, I don't think I'd be allowed to have one every often. Maybe that's why getting a ice cream with Ladybug is such a treat, because your spending time with a good friend, and that's a treat in itself.

Another one of my favorite memories was waiting for Father to come home, (yes, he even worked on vacation) and I would wait at the front door. However, Mother thought there were better uses of my time then staring at the oak door, and she suggested making a banner. I would draw butterflies and snails around the boarder, and in the middle I would write, "Welcome Home, Father!" in my five year old handwriting.

After Father would get home, he would change into a nice polo shirt and shorts, and he would fire up the barbecue. We would have hot dogs, salad, corn on the cob, and Mother would make a peach pie that was almost as good as the mud pie.

I think it was the outdoors that made the food that much better, and I always finished my meal feeling stuffed. Mother would stroke my hair and she and Father would tell me stories about when they first met and Father was teaching classes at the university. I like to hear stories even better then I like the food, because the stories are lasting memory. When it got dark, Mother would help me catch fireflies in a jar. It wasn't always easy catching the winking little bugs, and when we looked at them for a few minutes, it was time to let them go.

Since we only went to America once a year, Father would let me stay up late and toast marshmallows. Mother would always get nervous I would burn myself, but Father said as long as I sat in his lap, I would be fine. I like the marshmallow to be toasty and golden brown, with just the right amount of gooiness. Mother would have clean me up inside the cabin, me growing sleepy as she wiped my face with a wet cloth.

With all the lights here in Paris, it can be hard to see the stars, but in the woods, oh, Journal, I don't think I'll ever forget it!

They looked like salt and sugar sprinkled throughout the sky as if some invisible hand had dumped both shakers onto the black canvas of the night sky. I miss the cabin, Journal.

Sorry, if the ink splashed a little. There was a crack of thunder just now, and I jumped. I wonder how Plagg can sleep through all of this. He's probably dreaming about his cheese.

Anyway, back to memories. I think I was around eleven when we stopped going to America, because Mother's headaches would get so bad, and Father was busier then ever. At first, I didn't understand why we weren't going, and I would sit in my room and pout, even if I tried to hide it.

One day, though, I realized I didn't need to be in America to make a mud pie, and I thought it might cheer Mother up. She loved it. We sat there with the lights off (because of her headache) and stroked my hair. I didn't like it when she got headaches, even though she told me they were never my fault.

You are my little sunshine boy,

Smiling like the sun.

Warm and sweet and caring,

You've been able to make me laugh when I needed it most.

My dear Adrien, I love you,

To my son,

Love from Mother.

Emile Agreste

Sorry, Journal, I think that was a tear. I need to take a deep breath, knowing even if Mother isn't here now, at least Mama Cheng is.

Sure, she will never replace my mother, but with her I can make new memories. Especially our tea time when its just me as Cat Noir and her.

I wonder what Mother would have thought of Cat Noir. Would she like him, respect him? I wish could have met him, for maybe she would be proud of me. I think she was, even if she didn't feel good most of the time.

What I miss most about her is her hugs. She smelled like perfume or flowers, and even ink when she would sketch a new outfit. Marinette would love her too, and maybe she'll get to meet her someday.

I miss you, Mother, but at least I have your memories.

I love you and I hope I see you soon.

Adrien Agreste

-Cat Noir