Mother's Letter, Unsent
There is no way to mend this gash rent in the weave of my soul. Why do
I try? It only frustrates me, angers me, makes me crazy with loneliness.
No one, no thing, can heal this wound. Some days I know this, and resign
myself to it. Other days someone scratches that 'psychic-itch' in a manner
similar to yours, my child, and my heart leaps--but only for a moment.
No one, no thing, can restore the beauty of a life once filled with your
goodness, a life now shattered by the sudden violence of your exit from
Our hearts are hungry for your presence; our ears strain to hear your
laughter, your voice, your singing, to catch an echo from the storeroom
of our memories. We groan with tears for our own survival without you...a
nightly ritual, this travail. Perhaps these are the birthing cries of
His Spirit from within us, moments of Divine intercession. Could it be
He is making a different thing, even a useful thing, of these remnants
of a love once lived?
That is my prayer. That is our only hope.
Always and forever,
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