Dear Mr. Rose

Some old letter, that has words in my eyes and my skin and my hair and every little mishap. Also, Mr. Rose, if you're the reason for my prominent double-chin I will smack you

Dear Mr. Stephen/Steven/Stefen (oh, however you spell it) Rose,

I don't know what to tell you-

Well, that's not true,

I'd be lying if I didn't have anything I wanted to say.

I'd be delusional if there was nothing I could say.

I could say I hated you for leaving,

For being such an absence and such a mystery

When you are part of me

I'm fully aware that my eyes don't look like his, or hers, or anyone's,

But how can I be sure they're not yours?

I got her hands and her cooking and her laugh

And what would you know anything about any of those things?

I don't know if what you made caused you to leave

But she might have gotten the blue in her eyes from you

And maybe I'm so much like you I don't know it,

Maybe we're complete strangers and meant to be that way.

I could tell you I've been waiting to talk to you

Say you've been on my mind all the time

That I want to know you 

Say that you should fill the post you abandoned

But none of it's really true, I suppose.

In all honesty, I don't know what I would say.

I'm terribly awkward and I don't even know if it's your fault.

If it's your fault you left.

Maybe you're some profusion of cliches,

A drug-riddled mind and a loveless relationship,

Or an endless yearning that was forbidden,

But all I've learned to hope for is some idiot

Who made the wrong choice at the wrong time

And handled it poorly

But the thing is, you didn't leave a mess behind

I think.

I mean, I'm probably too late to witness any hypothetical disasters

That might've occurred

But you didn't leave any lives in shambles

And things... got better

Because you were gone or because of anything, any coincidence

And, it might hurt you like it hurt us or maybe you won't care,

But everything you left is gone now.

You can't come back and bring it back,

Nobody can. None of us are that strong.

It's not your fault, though,

Even though you probably don't care if it is.

You might as well be heartless,

But that doesn't numb the small ache

I get whenever I think of you.

So, if you've got the time,

Maybe I can find you.

If you find me.

And if you're even out there

Well... I'm out there too,

Writing letters to the man that has no reason to think of me.

Who probably doesn't even know I exist.

If any of it matters, in the end.

I'm happy, but you're still there, in all of your not-being-there.

I've got nothing else to say that couldn't wait, I guess,

So... for the first time, 

Hello.

Sincerely,

Madeleine Celeste Magnant (or, Koolkin-Magnant)

Your biological grandchild.