Dear Ever-Young

I pick up my pen to write again ‎ ‎Not about abstract subjects. ‎Not merely to escape idleness. ‎But to write to you. Again ‎ ‎I began this letter eleven years ago.l ‎Your sister found me curled up in that corner, ‎with bloodshot eyes and trembling hands ‎She saw me writing to you, ‎and she rebuked me sternly ‎ ‎In retrospect, I don't exactly blame her. ‎She must have thought I was exhibiting signs of depression ‎Or perhaps, in the way our society sometimes interprets things it cannot explain, ‎she suspected something more sinister ‎ ‎Some of us can't run away from growth and change ‎So, this version of the letter may not look like the original ‎ ‎But, Mummy, I miss you ‎I wish you were here ‎And it is no longer a feeling I can run away from ‎I sometimes catch myself feeling guilty when, for a brief moment, I forget that you aren't here ‎ ‎I hate that some people seem to have moved on ‎I can't believe they seem okay doing life without you ‎You were the perfect collab of King of Boys and Mother Teresa ‎You weren't merely the life of the party ‎ You were the celebrant, the bouncer, the DJ, the chef and the dancer ‎You were the party ‎In your absence, it is just one numb day leading to another gloomy one ‎ ‎I miss scratching your rough back ‎I was always repulsed by how acne had left your skin blemished ‎Turns out I'm your replica, so acne seems to be a little obsessed with my skin, too ‎And yes, my back is also rough ‎ ‎I fantasise about having my daughter scratch my back someday and cringe just as I did ‎ ‎I miss the dynamic of our relationship ‎We were so closely aligned in purpose, outlook and temperament ‎I believe one of the reasons we were best friends was that we were both first daughters ‎Perhaps that meant we could simply be ourselves with each other ‎ ‎I miss how you spurred me to write ‎ ‎I know that when you get this letter, you will be smiling ‎Because, Mum, I never stopped writing ‎I was too scared to write to you ‎But I did write. I did