Letters...

𖧷3𖧷

Privacy is an illusion.
Obviously you know this since you read your letter. It wasn't addressed to you. It wasn't there for you to read bo matter write on it. It had nothing to do with you. It was between me and my mother.
I know she's dead.
I know she can't read the letters.
I know there's very little I can do to feel close to her anymore.
Now I don't even have this.
Do you understand what you have taken from me? Do you have any idea?
What you wrote implies you understand agony. I don't think you do.
If you did you wouldn't have interfered with mine.

My first thought is that this chick is crazy. Who writes to a random stranger in a cemetery?

My second thought is that clearly I'm not the one throwing stones here.

Either way, she doesn't know me. She doesn't know what I understand.

I shouldn't even be standing here. It's Thursday night, meaning I'm supposed to he mowing the other side of the cemetery. It's not like I have tons of spare time to stand around reading a letter from a stranger. Melonhead gave a glare at his watch when I walked into the equipment shed five minutes late. If he catches me slacking off, there'll be hell to pay.

If he keeps threatening to call the judge, I'm going to lose it.

After a moment, my initial irritation seeps out, leaving guilt behind. I'm standing here because I felt a connection with the last letter. I wanted to see if another one had been left.

I didn't expect anyone to actually read what I'd written.

It's a slap in the face to realize she must have felt the same way.

I dig in my pockets for a pencil, but all I find are my keys and lighter.

I have a few pencils at home. Maybe this is fate's way of telling me to stop and think before I speak. Before I write

I fold up her rant and shove it in my pocket. Then I pull on my gloves and go to find my mower. I hate being here, but after weeks of doing this, I've found that hard labour is good for thinking.

I'll work, and I'll think.

And, later, I'll be back to write.