What She Says

Write the letter, she says, and tell me when it’s written, but don’t tell me what’s in it, I don’t want to know, she says, like it matters what I write, as long as I say goodbye, goodbye to the one who gave me another chance at life, an opportunity to breath again, after years of depression and neglect, and now that one responsible for the neglect expects me to give that up, give up the illusion and accept the cold reality, the harsh ice kicking my shins, breaking my jaw, twisting my back until it snaps, leaving my hands, crippled, but write that letter and don’t tell me what’s in it, she says.