Dear Mother

Dear Mother,

it is rarely cold in Nassau, but tonight a cold current is driving the children off the streets surprisingly early. The chatter of people is replaced by the roar of the wind, which composes a new symphony in the bay. Looking out at the sea, I write you my sorrow. After weeks of successful concerts, my own clumsiness has thrown me into trouble. I was dusting off those shelves above the piano and carelessly knocked over that ugly brown vase. It shattered, of course, but before it hit the floor with a loud crash, it fell onto your beloved piano and left a mark. I am truly sorry. I immediately tried to find someone who could help fix my careless mistake. Please do not be angry with me. I realize I must take care of the piano, and you know that I have loved it as much as you do since I was a child, and that I have likely become much more upset than you ever could. I had Pete come to repair the piano, as I assessed him to be a very skilled man. Unfortunately, even after the repair, my sadness did not diminish because I noticed that either I no longer play the same or the piano no longer allows me to. I truly did not know what to do next. However, I had to practice new songs. My search for help was unsuccessful. I tried to adjust to the new sound of our piano, or better yet, to restore its old spirit, but I failed. Jim told me that one key is irreparably damaged, and I consider him to be an expert also. You know, many here are involved in music and really know their craft. Unfortunately, that saddens me now.

That’s why I started playing at Jim’s store. He saw that I was truly devastated, and that I couldn’t afford a new piano, so he offered me the opportunity to practice on his display model. The deal is that he charges me a few cents a day for playing, which is much more affordable than buying a whole new piano. Unless I continue like this for the next ten years, but by then, I would still like to return to my peaceful haven.

My second greatest sadness still lingers. I miss home and I miss you, but I chose this path. Mother, I feel as though my search for happiness sank into the ocean when I decided to leave your warm embrace. The sun relentlessly illuminates the pillows you embroidered with red flowers every morning, and I hold them tightly in my hands, trying to catch a whiff of the old lilac that used to adorn the entrance to our small house. I no longer remember the scent of Margaret, and I think that news will make you happy.

Sometimes, I still think of her. Then, I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t listened to you. Would her long brown locks be intertwined with flowers on our pillows, and would her scent be deeply ingrained in them? Would we be in the garden of our little house, watching six legs trample on freshly mowed grass and wiping blood off scraped knees? I don’t know.

Yesterday evening, I practiced a new song and tried to feel love again. I remembered how you used to teach me new tunes every morning and how you would get angry when I smudged the beautiful white fingers with my greasy hands. You would then kiss me because you felt sorry for your little boy. Being without siblings, I truly cherished every moment of your attention and tenderness. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to feel that much love again.

Oh, mother, on that fateful evening when I told her to go home and that I no longer loved her, you and I both knew I was lying. I didn’t think she would believe me because my heart broke so loudly that she had to hear it. My hands yearn for her soft skin, and I want to hold her in my embrace wrapped in fresh linen sheets. Her long hair gently stroked me as I watched her sleep. I would kiss her all night, then and now.

Still, I left because you told me to.

As I play the piano, I often think of you and sometimes of her. You always wanted the best for me, and your dream was for me to become a pianist. Your words always came from the kindness of your pure motherly soul, and your wisdom was and remains greater than mine. However, mother, as I play certain songs, I sometimes feel a resentment towards your generous love. It was because of your words that fateful evening that I bled, but then I was happy because I could have died on the way here. I know she wasn’t worth it. She wasn’t of our kind, she wasn’t worthy, and she, like an anchor, pulled me into the depths of irresponsible youthful love. Every night, you heard me trying to sneak out to catch stars with her, and in the morning, with the cries of a rooster, I would try to lie down quietly in a cold bed again.

I know that you saved me. If it weren’t for you, I would have stayed with her, and my dreams would never have come true. I am grateful for your guidance and your love, even if at times it was hard to bear. When I play the piano, I feel closer to you, and I feel like I am fulfilling a part of your dream. Thank you for everything, mother.

She could have been my downfall, or perhaps, as I sometimes ponder, what if she was my beginning? Would I still yearn for what I pushed away with my own hands? Margareta fell into my arms like the first winter snowflake, so unexpectedly and lightly, and I melted her because I wanted to warm my hands by your hearth. I did the same with the piano, neither it nor she could be fixed. The sound will forever be wrong, and the key will resist what I did not know.

As I write these words to you, I am thinking about how I would love to send you the most beautiful song I have ever created, but I never wrote it for you, even though I wanted to with all my heart. Mother, if I hadn’t lied to her and let her go, I wouldn’t have considered you my savior and wouldn’t have been grateful to you. When I return one day to the ruins of our home, I will revive our lilac bush in your honor and gratitude. If you hadn’t loved me so much, I wouldn’t have known how to let go of her love. If I had loved you less, maybe I would have come back to you.

The wind is picking up, making it difficult to hear the waves that soothe me. Their gentle crashing always reminds me of the day I arrived here and played for the first time in a small corner pub. Your gray hair was still wrapped around the button of my shirt, and I kept it as a memory of what could have been.

If only I didn’t long so much for the memories I missed, perhaps I would know how to forgive myself. My words always seem empty, just like my chest has felt since Margareta left. I didn’t know how to appreciate her value. Perhaps you did, but you believed that I was worth more. If only your fragile hands could accept my words and truly feel my pain, but it’s too late now. Just as I left Margareta, you left me, mother, and left me to vividly recount my memories with my fingers. I hope you can hear me in heaven, and I hope you will keep a place for me. When I was told that you had passed away, and I didn’t have a chance to kiss you one last time, know that my only wish was to hear your sigh again after misreading the notes.