The Invictus

Your Nose. My Eyes.

Delilah,

Was it too hard then? Was I too far?
I died in your arms. You attended my burial (much to their disapproval, I am told). A midnight funeral sonds tragic to me, and rather nonsensical. It was cold mid june. And though you hadn't, I like to assume you lay a flower or two on my grave. I sense you were irrevocably aggrieved by my going, and that gratifies me somehow. Did you dream of me as frequently as I do? Of you.

But will you listen to this?

I met our child today. My son. He has grown up well. Your temper, I recognize. And your nose. Your smile. Your shade of hair. My eyes. And the way he looks with his sharp, ever-inquisitive eyes, always guarded_ is you. So innocently careful. He loves to draw but he is a quiet boy. He never has much to say. I see you in him.

But did you not see the 'us' in my child? Or the 'me'? Or yourself, even, at least.

For why, I wonder, did you abandon our child_ my boy_ to the care of a godforsaken nun, the very day he was born? Beloved, you are just so cruel sometimes, and I cannot hate you still. Confound me! I heard what you wanted to say and you haven't even said it yet.

I am taking my son away. And you should, indeed, go ahead with your verve. Accept Draven. Be someone else.

As of me, I can always find you in him. In my little Jake.

Yours.

Never more.