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A Letter for Mommy
Dear Mommy,
I had a talk with Cathie last night. I don't know if you'll believe me or just tell me again that she's my imaginary friend. But Mom I saw her for real.
She sneaks in my room, and I think its funny that I randomly get to a position and pretend to be asleep because I thought she was you.
Well, it was just you who gets in my bedroom around 11:30 pm late.
At first few seconds, she just stood in there as she closed the door behind her. Her looks made me think she's already 20 in years , less or so.
I saw her eyes in glowing red, and her cheeks are swolen pink. She was wearing white clothe, and her hair is straight bouncing to her waist as she walks slowly towards me.
She pats my cheek, and I felt her soft hand scooping my cheek while her thumb is gently rubbing my face.
She told me that she's sorry, but not for me. For you, Mom.
She begs for forgiveness about the thing she did not become. I don't understand her, Mom.
She's sorry for becoming not too smart to be proud of like your friends' children who are always topnotchers.
She's sorry about being not so pretty and perfect to be able to join pageants just like the one that you wants me to join.
She's sorry for being not so industrious and talented to be able to be flexed with your friends.
She kept silent for a minute, and what broke that soundless moment is her next word: but...
She told me to stop asking her to be clingy anymore She said you don't even give in to her when she needed it the most.
She also asked me if I can bring it up to you. Stop asking her some kisses for a late goodnight, you did not even let her felt loved when she needed it the most.
She also told me to tell you stop entering her situations, because some of her untold stories that broke her are all basically about you.
She asked me if I can tell you to stop holding her hands, you never even held her hand when she was afraid to lost in the market.
She also said that you should stop bragging about her so much to your friends like you're proud of her privately.
And the last thing she told me is this:
Don't listen to the world's voice for too much, and be deaf with my own heart.
And suddenly, her red glowing eyes are welled with tears, too much that it rolled down of her swelling red cheeks.
I scooped her cheeks, and wiped her face with my gentle little thumb.
As I look at her, you, Mom, don't want the girl she has became. A lame girl, trying to fit it in. A girl who is still into collectible toys and Anime rather than being obsessed with make-up and nails.
A girl passionate about writing and socializing rather than having any interest to be Doctor or an Engineer.
A girl with simple kind of beauty rather than being a sophisticated runway model on the Television.
A girl with more talent with gaming ranther than singing and dancing.
Suddenly, she collected herself, and stood up telling me:
"You still have 11 years, Cathie."
And then she disappeared.
I just stared to the place where Iast saw her with me. I know those eyes and cheeks, those passion, dreams, and hobbies, as well as her neglected stories.
I know she's talking about me.
But I don't have any clue about who is she for you, Mommy.
Love,
Your Nine-Year-Old Cathie.
© Pristina
I had a talk with Cathie last night. I don't know if you'll believe me or just tell me again that she's my imaginary friend. But Mom I saw her for real.
She sneaks in my room, and I think its funny that I randomly get to a position and pretend to be asleep because I thought she was you.
Well, it was just you who gets in my bedroom around 11:30 pm late.
At first few seconds, she just stood in there as she closed the door behind her. Her looks made me think she's already 20 in years , less or so.
I saw her eyes in glowing red, and her cheeks are swolen pink. She was wearing white clothe, and her hair is straight bouncing to her waist as she walks slowly towards me.
She pats my cheek, and I felt her soft hand scooping my cheek while her thumb is gently rubbing my face.
She told me that she's sorry, but not for me. For you, Mom.
She begs for forgiveness about the thing she did not become. I don't understand her, Mom.
She's sorry for becoming not too smart to be proud of like your friends' children who are always topnotchers.
She's sorry about being not so pretty and perfect to be able to join pageants just like the one that you wants me to join.
She's sorry for being not so industrious and talented to be able to be flexed with your friends.
She kept silent for a minute, and what broke that soundless moment is her next word: but...
She told me to stop asking her to be clingy anymore She said you don't even give in to her when she needed it the most.
She also asked me if I can bring it up to you. Stop asking her some kisses for a late goodnight, you did not even let her felt loved when she needed it the most.
She also told me to tell you stop entering her situations, because some of her untold stories that broke her are all basically about you.
She asked me if I can tell you to stop holding her hands, you never even held her hand when she was afraid to lost in the market.
She also said that you should stop bragging about her so much to your friends like you're proud of her privately.
And the last thing she told me is this:
Don't listen to the world's voice for too much, and be deaf with my own heart.
And suddenly, her red glowing eyes are welled with tears, too much that it rolled down of her swelling red cheeks.
I scooped her cheeks, and wiped her face with my gentle little thumb.
As I look at her, you, Mom, don't want the girl she has became. A lame girl, trying to fit it in. A girl who is still into collectible toys and Anime rather than being obsessed with make-up and nails.
A girl passionate about writing and socializing rather than having any interest to be Doctor or an Engineer.
A girl with simple kind of beauty rather than being a sophisticated runway model on the Television.
A girl with more talent with gaming ranther than singing and dancing.
Suddenly, she collected herself, and stood up telling me:
"You still have 11 years, Cathie."
And then she disappeared.
I just stared to the place where Iast saw her with me. I know those eyes and cheeks, those passion, dreams, and hobbies, as well as her neglected stories.
I know she's talking about me.
But I don't have any clue about who is she for you, Mommy.
Love,
Your Nine-Year-Old Cathie.
© Pristina
