Dear B.

Mother passed away a week ago.  I will always remember her teeth. They used to be so white and radiant in another life.  I used to draw flowers on them with my fingers, gently massaging the corners.  When we arrived here after the war, they turned yellowish. I thought it was my fault. I never wanted to touch them after that. They scared me. I was disgusted. The smell reminded me of misery and suffering. Sometimes I avoided asking her questions, to not witness her hole of destitution. Eventually, she stopped talking completely; in her silence, she grasped my disdain. 

The last days of her life, she asked me about you. I was surprised. She never liked you. She knew that something terrible would come from our encounters. What we meant had no meaning in her world. 

I did not cry the day of her burial. She never liked it when I became emotional. So I bid her farewell in silence and lethargy. The women who came to help did not ask questions, or maybe they did. But I was not there to answer.

They say mothers are precious. Losing them is like a rite of passage. You then, become a woman.

I am now sitting alone in front of that big window, observing the heavy fog falling on this strange town. Her teacups are still on the table. I am closing my eyes wondering what I missed of her life.

L.