Dear Mom.

Dear Mom,

It's been a while since we spoke. I write to you now because it's mother's day, and I feel as though I am required to at least dedicate something as small as this for you. You see, I know these past years have been extremely rough. I know that since Dad died, you're in this reclusive state and it lead to our halt of communication. You've been clouded in grief for these last what, three years? I get that. I have been too. I've been swallowed in my own grief so much so that I don't know how I'm treading in these waters. I can only feel guilt in this hollow heart of mine. I can feel it enlacing my very soul, withering its way through my heart and crushing my very essence. I feel like I'm going mad. I can't see the end of it. You didn't see the end of it either didn't you? Tell me, how did you move on? I'm so desperate for relief, mom. What do I do? How can I stop this grief? Where have you been when I needed you?

These questions beside, may I inquire to how your years have been? I've missed you so much, I hope you've lived a lively life, truly. You'd been working on your garden quite tenaciously the last I remember. Your favourite flowers, gosh, what were they? I can't recall, I'm sincerely sorry. Perhaps it'll come to me by the end of this letter. In the meantime, I have some exciting news.

I managed to get a girlfriend, can you believe it? She's so magnificent. In a lot of ways, she reminds me of you. She's determined, fiery, straight forward, angry. You're practically two peas in a pod don't you think? She's been helping me cope with everything, and even though we haven't known each other for long I've decided to stay with her forever. She's beautiful, mind you. Her skin; reminiscent of mint in its hue, her eyes grey like the moon. Her finger nails are painted the same dark red like you paint yours... if you still paint yours like that, that is. Perhaps the main reason why she reminds me of you is that ferocious look in her eye. You always had it too. You never didn't have it. You looked at me with that ferocity, that fiery passion for frustration and I remember it ever so keenly.

I wonder, do your eyes still hold that rage? Would they stare down at me like predator versus prey if you were to ever gaze upon me with eyes in the present again? I wonder what dad would think. Me writing such a pathetic letter. He'd tell me you weren't worth it. At the end of life, you're still my mother, you're always going to be. I guess it's that connection, that reason why I still bother to write you these unread letters every year. I always expect a response, but why do I if I've never gotten such a thing? It's as if you stopped breathing and just decayed over time, becoming worse and worse just under my nose but I'd still hold the same pointless hope of "perhaps tomorrow, she'll be back. Perhaps tomorrow, I'll hear from her". It's pointless.

In a lot of ways, I think dad was right. He always told me to find the right one, the right person for you. To find someone to stop the hurt, to find someone who'll always be there for you beyond death. I didn't understand this until later in time, because now I have two to be here for me beyond death.

I think I remember your favourite flowers now, Mom. They were tulips, you absolutely loved the things.

So I decorated your bloody dead body with decaying roses, just like my girlfriend who lay next to you. You two really are alike. Thank you for being here with me, even beyond death. I'll set this letter on your lap, just like the other ones now. I'm sure you'll read them soon.

You're the mother I've always wanted.

Dead.