In the Grey Disguise of Years

Dear Edward,

Mother died today. I mean yesterday. I know, I know. You’re going to say “it was forty-two years ago,” and “She was the same age as Our Lord was when He died,” and all the rest. You’re not wrong, Edward: you are almost never wrong. You know how much I admire that in you. I am only speaking figuratively, of course—even though I know that’s not your style. Besides, as you and I both know, time is an illusion.

They say a person’s death can turn your life upside down. Maybe it can. I tried to accept that she had “gone to a better place.” Maybe I am finally convinced of it, now. Well, I wasn’t then, Edward. Remember, I was nine years old. You were lucky. You don’t remember her at all, so far as I can tell. Maybe you just aren’t letting on. That’s another thing you know I admire in you: you play your cards so close to your chest. I wear my heart on my sleeve. I can’t help it.