Dear Mother;

I recieved your card in the mail today. I'm surprized the post office could decipher the red scribbles vaguely resembling my address. Acid siezed my throat when I remebered how beautiful words by your hand were years ago. Long before Tvarski and Gordon's ate away your skill, you had mastered calligraphy. I recall your time spent handwriting Christmas cards, blessing our friends and family with your agility. The happy days of the past fill my mind right before my body heaves, an effort to expel good to reflect reality in the here and now.

The sentiment of your words mean nothing now. Visions of the drunk claiming to be my mother bury the woman I knew in youth. I picture you writing this card, placing the stamp, and crawling out of your hole to mail it, the charade in my mind sickens me. Your sweet words anger me, your desire for pity betrays your tone. Your efforts to soften are in vain. Until you admit you have a problem, I can do nothing for you.

You called to inform me of the letter you sent. I reeled in my chair as you rattled off an incorrect addess. I can hear you when you drink. Your weakened mind cannot correct lost dexterity in your tounge. You told me about the new job you're going to lose in six months. Eventually, your new employers will smell your breath and leave you unemployed. Love for the woman I will one day call my wife builds my tolerance. You better pray every night to any Holy being willing to listen for the woman in my life, for she is the reason I haven't blotted you from my existance.

Sincerely;

Your Son

Posted by drastane, send comments to [email protected].

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