Wishful Thinking

The letter arrived shortly after Christmas.

My mother's small, precise handwriting was unmistakable, with more flourishes and swirls than I used, but still so much like my own that I cringed. There was no doubt I'd inherited her handwriting, and though I had no idea what the letter contained, I suspected it wouldn't be good news and I put it aside unopened. Out of sight, out of mind, I told myself firmly. Then wny not just burn it unread? demanded a second voice. Curiosity! I snapped back, and you can just shut up!

It worried me all the afternoon, like a sore tooth that you know you should leave alone but can't help touching. It preyed on my mind, forcing me to wonder what she could have written and knowing I'd regret finding out. It was only a letter, words put to paper and surely nothing that could cause me harm. I could put it down, throw it away, stop reading, ignore it altogether. I sat for a long time holding it and looking at the fire in the wood stove, trying to balance my need to know against my instincts to throw it into the flames. Curiosity won out.

It actually began as an apology although for what wasn't made clear, mutated to a list of grievances then to a longer list of accusations and finally, longest still, a list of all the reasons why she was blameless and I was at fault. I read it with a growing sense of amazement mixed with fury and when done, threw it into the fire. The last line, Your father doesn't need to know about this letter, stayed with me a very long time. I ached to tell him that even dying of cancer hadn't changed her, that she still reached out to provoke, incite, blame and hurt anyone she could. But there was no point. We had all had enough pain and I was sure his was not done.

The sun was setting and the fire in the woodstove burned bright and warm, throwing shadows on the walls and floors. Dusk settled in and washed over the mountain like a fine rain. It would be a clear cold night and there would be stars to make wishes on.

Every wish is a prayer to God - Elizabeth Barrett Browning