my dear fig,
it is cold in here. it’s not the kind of cold winter brought to us, back home. i do not see old oak trees, shedding their leaves and letting them loose for they are dead. it is a chill between my ribs. a sharp prick, like a knot tangled somewhere within my diaphragm, and i am choking.
i feel like somebody has snatched my lungs with their dirty hands, and is straining, and sieving whatever is left of it into fine ashes. sometimes, when i look up at the peeling ceiling above me, i see the shape of black moths. enlarging their speckled wings wider, broader. i wonder if they are preparing to take flight. but where would they go, fig? where could they possibly go?
the light peeking from under the cracks are losing it’s glow. this means it will soon be time for dinner, so i have to get ready. has ma moved away from that ol’ rocking chair? in quiet moments here, i can still hear it’s teak, creaking that painful sound.
please write me, and tell me all about your days. i want to hear everything you have to say – about your joy, and the mornings you can’t bear to lift your body from under your bedcovers.
I will write to you again, the soonest i can. fig, i know one day, i will be out of here . there will be better days ahead for us all. long, wilful days filled with piggy back rides, and passionfruit sorbet cones.
all my love and heart,