letters

The only thing binding me with her are the letters. These letters do not come often, but I yearn for the day that one arrives in my mailbox. I want so badly to be able to see her face and feel her touch. As much as I despise that woman, a boy needs his mother. I wish that I could visit her and see the coldness and despair surrounding her cell, where she deserves to be. But I also recall happy moments of her bringing me dessert after a long day of tiring work. I miss her smell, but sometimes I imagine it to be within the lining of the paper that is sent to me. The words she writes, and the letters that are contained within speak nothing but distant lies. "I'll be home soon," "I miss you," and even the worst, "I love you buddy." Yet even with the hurt that engulfs my spiritual, mental, emotional, and physical self, I dream of a loving mother coming home to her son every night. The son has a faith and trust and love set in her, and without continually saying "I love you," the mother knows. The thing about these letters is the lack of emotion that is sensed. I am unaware of her mood while writing it, and even though I see the stains of bleeding ink from her teardrops, I am unsure if she misses her child or the life she used to have. The letters make me feel remembered, but I am left alone, unwanted.