Dear Mama,
When you died, I did not scream.
I did not know how it happened. No single gave me any advice. I recently returned from work and discovered you lying still in your living room, transfigured in Madame Tussauds foam.
You 40 years old and suddenly had an asthma attack steal your career in the summer of that year. I was four, and did not yet know what dying was.
In the middle of the pain that was my companion, I stood. However, I had dried vision.
Your face did n’t leave a scar on your face. Your body did n’t have any injuries. How may I hear that you would never hold my hand again, grin with me, soothe my sobs, or brush away my tears?
How was I possibly be certain that no one would ever truly care about me in such a heartfelt way?