#letter prosa

Mum, I remember sitting here on this old wooden bench near the riverbank five years ago. The paint is already peeling, and I wonder if it was like this when we sat here together.

Two people with their own demons.

I remember you smelling of smoke and cigarettes. A blue and black checked cotton shirt and a black jacket. It was windy that day. The air howled around us, and you lit your cigarette under the shelter of your jacket. We talked a lot, but about nothing at the same time—at least nothing important. We sat facing each other like two statues. Two people trying to have a normal conversation. Your face was weary; life had aged you too quickly.

You had a puzzle book with you.

You used to enjoy doing things like that.

An activity that banished the darkness for a moment. Do you still do puzzles?

I wondered then, as I do now,

if you wouldn't have preferred someone else sitting on the bench.

It's no secret that after four children, your love wasn't enough for me.

Many say the youngest child gets the most. Only I was the exception. You kept everything, collected it like little trophies.

The first hairs, the first pacifiers.

Only mine were always missing.

Even my birthdate faded from your mind, perhaps obscured by alcohol, perhaps simply insignificant.

Now, five years later, I'm sitting on the bench again. But alone. I haven't seen you since.

A few weeks after our last meeting, you cut all ties.

Rejected all calls.

I know now that you only did it to protect me—to avoid watching my mother spiral downward. But you didn't consider that you pushed me a little further into the abyss I've been in since birth.

I'm not angry with you.

I just wish I'd had an explanation back then.

Anything is better than ignorance.

The first contact since then was a letter that suddenly appeared on the kitchen table.

Apologies I knew all too well. Reasons that were repeated again and again on the letterhead. Everything as usual.

It took me a long time to find the right words, and I probably didn't find them at all. Nevertheless, I sent you a letter back. Months later, the reply finally came.

After five years of nothing, you suddenly wanted everything:

to see me, photos, to talk on the phone.

I still haven't replied to the letter.

I simply lack the words to express my position in a chaos that began even before my time.

I don't know what I'll reply or when. I know I should reply to you immediately because life can sometimes be very short. Because life can end unexpectedly. You've already come close to that more than once. Your body is poisoning itself.

And yet I still can't do it.