All of my words bounce back to my ears from the empty walls, inadequate. Taking each fragile memory from the shelf, wrapping the bone thin delicacy in tissue paper, I feel the opaque zh zh zh beneath nimble fingers. One (rosy) adjective for each (simple) noun would leave our (flat)world (well) accounted-for. I'm wrapping them for you, dear. Can you taste the wr in wrap? Do your lips pucker, does your tongue curl to meet your middle palate? (No.) I'm placing one tea cup (hand painted) in a thin-paper cushion so that first the pale pastel purple will tickle your eyelashes and by the time you sweep aside the ribbon and lightly so lightly pick apart the thin-paper that you will truly dearly see the bone china.
Did I tell you the tragedy surrounding the bone china? No, not that some small, needy-thin beggar child fashioned it quite carefully from (gasp) real bones. Only that, only only that they cradled the fine pottery in natural light with one hand while the other painted the mimsy flowers one by one. This saucer contains the hope for life and a full belly for some sad, young thing. The tragedy painted so lightly into the bouquet is that you dear mummy could only buy one set. One. I'm carefully, gently placing these precious pieces into your palms for I know (I feel) you will remember the hands that wrapped them. Imagine, pumpkin, that when you were swimming and drifting in my belly that I could only ever stare intently at such finery from too far. We were separated, segregated from everything but necessity.
You and I shouldered a burden that even Daddy didn't recognize. We went hungry to fill his belly, his stomach needed our nutrients to sustain us all. Not that we starved and our muscles ached from deprivation, no (not always), but we skipped meals, and we skipped them together. You and I, sweetie. You always understood me (I know) from that time. We were co-conspirators, secret keepers, and fighters. You think on my side (I know) in all this mess, this life. (Right?) You couldn't possibly blame mummy in this.
Do you remember the seagulls? You would beg and beg to watch them from the bridge and I always said tomorrow, tomorrow. Then one day you weren't in the garden or your room and I was (I was) listening all those times, and I know that you must be at the bridge with a bag of bread. I calmly grabbed my jacket and your jacket (so small) and walked the 7 blocks with an assured connection to your thought processes and I knew (Iknew) you would be standing there on your tiptoes to see over the cold marble, watching the birds dip down to the white waves.
I didn't shout or punish you. I just wrapped your jacket around you and walked you home in silence. He was always there to spank (never maim) and berate. You know (I know) that I had no choice.
Now I need your words, dear. You know how mummy worries. I need your blessing to wash over my frail future. (I need) You don't have to answer me today or tomorrow, but I hope one day I will hear your voice over a line that will be your forgiveness. Know that I think of you.
Love,
Mum
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