Writing Letters [completed // editing]

| letter thirteen december 25 1999 | *

"Sometimes, you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory."

~dr. seuss

Dear Angel,

As I sit here, in your apartment, struggling to put up decorations while you are out, doing who knows what, I have an absurd amount of time to think about meaningless things.

Firstly, I don't think I can thank you enough, for saving me from Gage. If you hadn't I don't think I would be here, writing this letter for you.

I have also been thinking about the last time I had a proper Christmas.

It was ten years ago, when I was twelve. My mother had just gotten home from work, she was a nurse, you see. Still in her scrubs, she shook me awake at around four in the morning, an excited gleam in her eyes. Oh, Angel, sometimes, my mother was more childish than me. And I loved every part of that. Pulling me out of my bed, she half dragged me down the stairs, stopping proudly in front of the tree, that hadn't been standing there the night before. Underneath, were mounds of wrapped presents. I still remember her exact words to this day.

"Do you like it, Ash?" she had asked me, nervously. I just wrapped my arms around her, ecstatic.

"I love it, mom," I said to her.

Angel...

Those were the last words I ever said to my mother. She left shortly after, to get coffee. I had ordered a vanilla steamer. She never came back, the only thing I saw of her was her mangled car. I feel so guilty; I never went to her funeral. It hurt too much.

And now, I'm celebrating Christmas again.

As always,

Ash