"adress" poems - Hello Poetry

Every time something new and exciting happens, I'd write a letter to mumma, ever since I was six. New Ma and Pa gave me a pen and paper one day, and an envelope with a unfamiliar adress, they said, "Write 'til your hearts content, sweetheart." My first letter had terrible spelling, with backwards letters, But it had meaning, it read, "Where are you mumma?" I wrote a letter for each week, and New Ma would let me put it in the box, down by the train station, I'd run home as fast as I could and Pa told me that if I sit by the letterbox too much, a patch of grass next to it would die, so I sat at the door step waiting instead. As I grew up, The amount of letters I'd write would slowly decline, I'd write more in depth than one sentence, but only once a month. At the age of 17, I'd write only 2 letters a year, Christmas and what they told me was her birthday. I'm 29 now, I still write her a letter whenever I have time, and somedays, when I feel lost, or empty inside, I'll still sit by the dusty letterbox and wait. ***Dear Mumma, I'm 29 today, are you proud? How are you? Are you fine? Are you fascinated by stars? I watch them tonight, As I write to you. Mumma, I have some sad news, New Pa had been terribly ill for weeks, Months maybe, but it all seemed too quick. He passed away last week, Mum. Pa was a beautiful man, I wish you met him, Mum, You would have liked him, Every one did. At the end of Pa's funeral, New Ma handed me a shoe box covered in tear drops and her shaky hands were so pale. But, Mum, do you know what was inside? The box held every single one of my letters That I had sent you, All were stamped with "RETURN TO SENDER". On sunny days, I still wait for you at parks, Mum. From your forgotten daughter, Florence. I love you.***

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Jul 23, 2012

Jul 23, 2012 at 7:53 AM UTC

madsline

Mumma's last words part 2

Every time something new and exciting happens, I'd write a letter to mumma, ever since I was six. New Ma and Pa gave me a pen and paper one day, and an envelope with a unfamiliar adress, they said, "Write 'til your hearts content, sweetheart." My first letter had terrible spelling, with backwards letters, But it had meaning, it read, "Where are you mumma?" I wrote a letter for each week, and New Ma would let me put it in the box, down by the train station, I'd run home as fast as I could and Pa told me that if I sit by the letterbox too much, a patch of grass next to it would die, so I sat at the door step waiting instead. As I grew up, The amount of letters I'd write would slowly decline, I'd write more in depth than one sentence, but only once a month. At the age of 17, I'd write only 2 letters a year, Christmas and what they told me was her birthday. I'm 29 now, I still write her a letter whenever I have time, and somedays, when I feel lost, or empty inside, I'll still sit by the dusty letterbox and wait. ***Dear Mumma, I'm 29 today, are you proud? How are you? Are you fine? Are you fascinated by stars? I watch them tonight, As I write to you. Mumma, I have some sad news, New Pa had been terribly ill for weeks, Months maybe, but it all seemed too quick. He passed away last week, Mum. Pa was a beautiful man, I wish you met him, Mum, You would have liked him, Every one did. At the end of Pa's funeral, New Ma handed me a shoe box covered in tear drops and her shaky hands were so pale. But, Mum, do you know what was inside? The box held every single one of my letters That I had sent you, All were stamped with "RETURN TO SENDER". On sunny days, I still wait for you at parks, Mum. From your forgotten daughter, Florence. I love you.***