My mother gives me a stack of mail with my name on it

These look important she says and I take them, 
bearing them away solemnly, heavy with the weight 
of responsibility. I used to get mail from my grandparents 
and I don't remember what any of those letters said. 
I only remember the faded dollar tucked inside. 
Back then I thought a dollar could fly me away from reality — 
a lollipop to transport me, a fancy scroll of pink and yellow button candy, 
a jawbreaker that never was as sweet as it looked. 
Back then the sky was sky, sun was sun, and a packet of jelly beans
was like adding wings to the castle in my mind. 
Now when I get mail, I don't read them. Instead, 
I place them on the table, abandoned and unread. 
When the doctor’s office asks me to confirm my address, 
I lie and say Yes, that's the one because to have any mail 
sent to my parents’ house reminds me of my old bookcase 
covered in stickers, my grandparents slowly 
creeping up the driveway and disturbing the neighbors 
with a succession of honks from the car. 
I tell my mother Thank you, as she hands me 
another stack of unreadable mail, meaning 
I am the daughter of a daughter over and over again 
though I still often feel like a home with no address.