Mother’s Day is quickly approaching, coincidentally, it is also my 30th birthday. As if that wasn’t frightening enough (childless + unmarried = spinster), I get to spend my birthday fighting back jealous thoughts about everyone else who gets to celebrate their amazing moms.
Dear knife wielding intruder,
I’m sure you hardly think of her, that mother of 3 young children that you stabbed repeatedly back in 1989…but I do.
You must be elated that they were never able to connect you to her murder, and so you are free, roaming among the rest of the population, living your life as a free man. Surely you must feel like you’ve gotten one over on everyone – how smooth and clever you are.
I’m sure you don’t have nightmares of her lifeless blood drained body, lying supinely in that doorway…but I do.
She wakes up, her green sweater still soaked with blood. She is slit from her neck to her pelvis, just the way you left her. Unaware of how frightening she appears to me, she asks to sleep in my bed beside me.
She was just getting her fair shot at the world, when you took that away from her, took her life, her new found happiness. I often wonder what her last words were, if you even granted her that. Did she beg for her life? Or did you choke her so forcefully that nothing could escape those perfect heart shape lips that all of her daughters were so graciously given?
I’m sure you don’t think of yourself as a monster, justifying her murder in your warped state…but i do.
Given her slight build, you knew she didn’t stand a chance. Although the scars you bear tells me she was a fighter, I wish I would have gotten the chance to know her well enough to know her strength.
And yet, I don’t hate you. I don’t hate you because I find it impossible to hate something I don’t understand. I don’t hate you because you are my Father.
I’m sure forgiveness is the last thing I should be feeling…but I do.