Letters To Mother, September Comments

I may have spoken hastily at our last meeting, but I left those harsh words at the table to die. Instead, all is spoiled and it all burns the oil, the groceries, the bridges and inside the minds. I did not ask for any help in letting things get carried away in the morning, so I will not ask for postmen to carry my letter. If not for, or in, the man I am, at least admire the character.

For one so invincible, such a staple and provider she gets insecure at the hiss of a spider. Along came her son as he sat down beside her, she wept at herself for his thoughts that divide her. In all that she’s raised and in all that he’s been, she sees her reflection in his blue eyes again. In nothing she gave him and all that he’s known she hates such a seed and the way that it’s grown.
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