I took out a piece of parchment to scribble down the things i wanted to ask you, hoping the angels would bring it to you. I thought perhaps, should i ask why? Why you couldn't hold on to life a little longer because i still can't get over the fact that you are gone. Or maybe to ask if it is really you who appears in my dreams...or am i just overly hallucinating to the point of memory alteration. I should ask what keeps you busy because you mentioned the first time we talked in my dreams that you couldn't visit sooner because you had been busy. I should ask why you can't appear in my dreams everynight. Like the night before my graduation when you came and we took pictures full of glorious technicolour and we were content. I should also ask whether you noticed that i am blue, broken...i lost myself. That I am so afraid of loss that i feel the need to push the ones i love away. To ask whether you noticed that i keep to myself so that i do not burden those around me when i break down with the mere mention of "mum". Or let me just ask for advice. I grew up accepting the concept of broken hearts because somehow humans decided that figuratively the heart is made of glass. But mine isn't. It's made if sand. I lost a grain or two over the years but now...i should ask for advice on how to mend my disseminated heart. For it is scattered into millions of grains. And for some reason time seems to have gone to a stance. The saying that time heals all wounds seems vague to me now. For no matter how much time passes by, this wound isn't healing. Its hard to think about you, but its even harder not to. So after contemplating all these questions, i took out my quil and wrote the one question i was desperate to ask you:
*mother, are you well?
Dens vært et år, og uansett hvor mange sekunder passerer jeg savner deg mer hver dag. Hvil i fred mamma. Jeg elsker deg tusen mye ganger. Til vi ser hverandre igjen.