The first letter finally arrived – the return address scrawled on the envelope indicated it was from my son, and it was from prison.
It took courage to open the letter and it took love to be able to read it. His handwriting was far messier and almost ‘lop-sided’ compared to his usual neat cursive. His scrambled sentences almost an indication of perhaps his mental disposition. And there was a thread of anger, confusion and disorientation to his conversation – threads of drug withdrawal no doubt interfering with his thoughts and words.
The letter was absent of specific detail (is that because he is writing from an ‘information sensitive’ environment?) or because he wishes to spare his mother of more grief and pain.
And of course there were the “I love you more than anyone in the world mum” and the “don’t worry about me mum” words. Tears flow freely as I read these words. While I am grateful to receive his letter, I struggle to sort emotions of failure, shame and sorrow into an ordered reality.