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When I was little, my mother gave me a picture.

I remember sitting down in the living room, staring at it. There was a man looking over at a little kitten that was sitting on his shoulder. I would look at the picture and think about how I wish I knew that man. My mother did.

She would always tell me stories about how funny he was. About they were best friends until he dropped out, then she lost contact. She told me one day, she saw him, with his band playing a show. He recognized her, instantly running over giving her a hug, but the second he turned his back, security made her leave.

She never talked to him again.

She cried when she told me about how she found out he died. She cried when she told me that his wife wouldn't let her go to the funeral, but some guy named Krist fought to let my mom go. My mom ended up being allowed in, but didn't make it past the entrance before she had to turn around and leave. She had decided she didn't want to stand around and talk to a bunch of people that barely knew him.

I think my mother was somewhat in love with that guy. I don't know if he felt it back, and I bet my mother never admitted to it. I could tell though, just by the way she talked about him, that there was something inside of her that had once had feelings for him.

I was born two days after Kurt died, April 7th, 1994. I don't have a dad, a man named Dave is my only father figure. Although, him and my mother never got together. He was just around a lot.

Two months ago, we were evicted out of our small apartment. Dave offered to give us somewhere to stay, at his house. But, my mother wanted to stay in Aberdeen. We moved from hotel to hotel until last week. Dave forced us to move to Seattle with him.

He already had a room set up for me, well the bed and dresser and stuff like that. I moved in what I had left, which was just a little bit. Dave didn't let me say no to him taking me out and buying me whatever I wanted. According to him, I've been through more than what a fifteen year old ever should.

He left yesterday for a tour with his band, The Foo Fighters. My mothers been sick since we got here, after Dave left yesterday, I put her in the hospital.

My name is Kristen Cobain Wilson. I'm fifteen, and my mother's dying.

When we were moving around, she left all her stuff, just so I could keep mine. The only thing I have of hers to remember her by is a picture of Kurt Cobain. Not even a picture of me and her when I was little. Just a Polaroid of Kurt with a kitten.

A Polaroid my mother took.

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