Letter to X
by Louis E. Bourgeois
Strange animal—you have taken all my days and have turned them into rain. I should not be writing this, I am emotional, a state of mind I truly abhor. I have just talked to my dying mother—true, your mother is dying as well, but not nearly as quickly as mine—and I especially wanted to say that I’m tired of Death, tired of the word itself; language has grown stale in my mouth and I can no longer remember my name. And when the sun rises, I am filled with fear and pity—the songs of dozens of late morning birds are crushing me with their waning vitality.
What I wanted to say to you no longer matters, just as sure as I wanted to say it. Understandably, you demand that I say something—but it has never been like me to say anything at all—
I merely envision a bridge that no one is allowed to cross, in which on the other side of the bridge everything is over long before it begins; misery itself has no end because it has no remembrance—all our suffering is a future that can’t ever arrive—
Blessed child, blessed lover, pray, and kneel before your Cross, you must, because I cannot, and the world is ever darkening and soon we shall be no more.
Your Comforter
