Don’t Do It.

Found this letter I did. Dated 09/09/1976

Written from Bertha to her mother, begging her not to remarry her dad.

Dear ma. The wind blows annoying as hell here. And the sun sets too early- depressing. Not as depressing as you marrying dad again. A cheater always a cheater. A pumpkin rotten inside, a fly stuck on a window. A devil farted from hell. Punched me in the face once while I ate some of your freshly baked bread. Said I was a wannabe. And my face was red and I tasted blood, like copper, and I thought one day I will grow up and kick his ass. But a gorilla loses it’s silverback eventually. And I grew up to pity the bastard, but did he ever stop treating you wrong? In science in school they said a bee stung and died. I saw some clouds outside. Secretly thought that should happen to dad. He stung you more than once, ma. You will tell me you’re happy, and that he has changed, but he’s a dog ma who got his balls removed too late. Your tears flooded the house too many times already. What do they call it? Acid rain. Can you be like a praying mantis and chop off his head. And can you be like a spider and spin him in your web and just leave him there. The past can be forgotten, forgiven even. But why repeat it, after all, if you are lonely you have me. And we can read books together, and we can go for a walk. And the rain will splash on us instead of your tears. And we can jump in puddles. And we can race to the dead end. And we can climb the mountain and watch the sun come out. Let go. Don’t put any more lighting fluid into the spark. Artificial. Makes the meat taste like shit. We can use that lesson from him. Let’s go dump the ashes together, and they can flow in the wind. And if the wind is blowing as strong as it now, the ashes will disperse into the desert and we will never see them again. But the wolf will come knocking, ready to blow your house down. I’ll be there ma, and skin him right, make you a nice coat we can take to speed dating. They’ll call us sisters like the old days. And we can drink whisky and feel it burn our throats. We’ll find you a fine man, no Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde. I’ll be your fairy godmother, you’ve taken care of me enough. I’ll be your ruby slippers but beige because you don’t like red. But you can still tap them together and we will be home, beside the iron stove grandma gave you and we can pray to her together. Don’t waste your time on dad again. You deserve better. I love you and want you to know that if you do marry him again, I won’t hate you. Love, Bertha

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