hugs and caskets

To my mother,

Even after all the letters I’ve written, I never seemed to figure out how to start one when it comes to you. Well, I think first and foremost, it would just be polite of me to ask how you are. So with that-𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶?

Like all the other ages that I’ve worn, your life faded into blurry snippets of images that flash once in my dreams. I don’t even know if they’re simply my imagination filling in the gaps of what I lost.

You’re someone who I was predetermined to lose.

I need to admit that I’ve grieved enough for forgetting the way you breathe, the way you walked, how you talked, how you smelled, and how you feel.

I like to amuse myself with the wonders of life when I’m older, wiser. I think it’ll take only a blink for me to imagine a kid running around in a diaper and pretty dark eyes.

A lot of women claim motherhood to be a gift. Will you be surprised if I say that it’s a curse? 𝘞𝘩𝘰 𝘢𝘮 𝘐 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴. Actually, calling it a curse is an understatement. Being a mother is a tragedy.

My kid will be a mirror of you. Is that too subtle of a hint to say that I’ll be mourning for all the phases they will go through? I would have to live my life giving up pieces of what I have, then watch helplessly as they walk a path I can’t ever follow.

Did it ever dawn on you that a child at twenty-two would be as hard as trying to catch the moon? I’m afraid at the realization that I harbor such hatred for the woman who gave up dreams that weren’t even finished making for a lump of meat with a consciousness to nitpick her flaws.

I sometimes forget that you’re just like me. A child who never learned how to walk properly.

It’s hard to think of children as gifts. You wrapped me in the prettiest ribbon you could find, but I grew thorns as skin and knife for a tongue. You don’t even know you hurt me just as much from the fact that I hurt you enough to leave a gash.

My only defense is a repeated sentence of ‘𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵’

Would it have been better if we were closer in age?

I am never someone who takes forgiveness lightly, and I don’t think I’m someone who apologizes genuinely-because it’s hard to think of myself as someone who could do wrong (my professor call it a universal experience for teenagers: the ‘we-know-everything’ phase that lasts for what feels like only two weeks). Even now, I’m trying to find all the right reasons to justify how I hurt you, and there’s a lot of them I can count.

𝘞𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘪𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘵?

I’m too selfish to acknowledge the dampness on your pillow. The burden of your sorrows is too much for me to bear-so I help you in ways that make it heavier.

𝘋𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘦𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘸?

It’s okay. I have enough sadness to lament over the days of your ‘what if’s. Give me the chance to repent for both of our sins. Let me sacrifice what you gave for a youth you couldn’t drink. God is a cruel god for making me understand the differences of our cuts-you are the world itself and the end of it.

Mom, I think my rib cage is brittle. 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘳𝘺 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯?


❏

the last letter that strayed from its promised home. Issi decided to mail it to the correct place-although too late; the recipient now lays six feet under the soles of Issi’s six year old shoes.