Letters to My Mother II.

Another letter to my mother.

Mama,

It’s been a long time since I’ve written, but you are, in fact, a spectator. So you see everything, but you know me. I have to put it all down on paper, and then give it to others because some days it’s the only proof I have that I am anywhere at all.

 

My body is a locked jaw, grinding teeth to gravel, and it’s all to keep something inside. I’m uncertain what will tumble out if I let it all go. Will it have teeth, claws, and green and yellow froth coming from its mouth? Or will it fall to the ground, its mummified parts turning to dust after eons in darkness? 

Maybe it’s my sentient longing. There is so much I want and the want is deep, Mom. It’s not a hunger but a palpitation. These days of finding myself anew leave me feeling like I am trying to stare past the sun. 

Do dead people pray? Do you ask God, on my behalf, for ease, and honey, and children grown on pumpkin vines? Do you ask that my health remains inexplicably intact, and that one day I will drink enough coffee to fix my alphabet soup brain? Do you pray I find evidence of love wherever I go, like glitter in the couch cushions, crying in line waiting for a malt chocolate shake, sweaters that still smell like perfume? 

Mom, I am alive. I am inescapably a real person inside skin. I think you built me from the mud of the grief that you were to leave behind, because every thought, every feeling, every person never passes as they should. They just become another heirloom kept in glass, locked in the vault with whatever beast, or mummy, or eldritch, or some other metaphor that alludes to whatever the f**k my problem is. 

All this to say, I’m fine. I eat too many sweets, I tolerate my job, and I try to love people where they are, even if where they are sucks. I count my blessings, in between counting space between breaths. I don’t really brush my hair, and I deleted the dating apps. I’m paying rent. I dry roses in the window. I write nonsense and want strangers to like it. I’ll get by. Unless I don’t. I’m sure you’ll be first to know. 

Reviews

[Arti]

Hi, the line Mama you started with shows me how beautifully you started with.
I missed so many things you referred here would like to be with family I mean my son to write for me and my husband too.

Any girl would love to be treated like mother, it's the definition of love starts with.

I hav two kids was it that my husband feels me to so. I just call him sometimes Mama. On this beautiful day of Mother's day I got to see your letter.

Jessy Jacob.
I wish back health and wealth to the family.