~letter

This letter is a much for myself as you, and as always, I don’t expect it to be met with an open heart. When I buried my mother there was never an apology, but I did my duty anyway. You only saw a glimpse of what I endured, but it was best that way.

You were born of a love- -the spirit of which cannot be captured with mere words. It was nascent, wild, free, and devastating. A love you find only once in a life time. Because I knew your father wouldn’t live long you were conceived so I could hold on to a part of him forever. You always believed I loved your brother more, perhaps you were right because I made no mistakes with him. 

He was born of a desire to have a child. Your existence came into being for the same reason, but you were also born from the flames of love on fire. You remained as the fire that would try to turn me to ash.

Perhaps it was mother that made it so hard to raise a female child. You received the one thing I never did. I know I made grave errors as a mother, but I owned them. You did not have to wait for an apology. Perhaps you were too young to understand the significance of such a thing.

 We tell the stories we want to believe. Your stories are of a monster with huge teeth, who twisted your spine, and clawed out your eyes. You are free to believe whatever you wish. In truth, your mother was weakened by your father being on cocaine, a mother still beating her after you were born, and a myriad of other tragedies that I made sure you never had to live through. You pulled the sinew from my bones, and built an effigy of my essence which you set ablaze as you danced around it under moonlit nights. I blame myself for that, and your inability to feel the pain of another human being. You never told my son how his absence almost killed me. It was the only thing I ever hoped you would do …. for me.

I’m not interested in old stories. In my story life goes by in the blink of an eye, each breath we take is a gift, and love is priceless. In my story my daughter is this exquisite soul with whom I still stay up late at night and have my most fascinating conversations with. In my story you have feelings, and we cry for years lost together then leave that to the past and create something magnificent and new. Educated gypsies we are. Women made strong because we survived. We survived all of the crushing forces around us, including one another. In my story we are best of friends, and one day you will have a daughter of your own who will be part of our circle. In my story we taste the sweetness of forgiveness. In my story there is peace.

I do not know if this letter will ever reach you, or if you would care if it did. You were a child born out of fire and light. The past is bone crushing; but cannot be undone. It is best left forgotten. All we have is Now. I send this to you with love, and lay a possible future in your hands. There are no expectations. Each day is a gift, and blood is thicker than water even though my own is dried and flaking from my bones.  The ending to this story is up to you.

If only silence is my eternal return I will write my own story, filling it with millions of roses strewn across a sapphire sky. Pedals will fall from the heavens, and my feet will dance upon the green Earth. There will be a memory of a child whose name I cannot recall, my bones will be straight, and my skin will no longer be pulled back, as sulfur memories burn my flesh. I will live my story, and wish you peace.

(c) Katherine Wyatt   All Rights Reserved 2016