A Letter to My Mother

Tonight, the sound of my life is laced in the agony. It is hanging, between truth and lie, between reality and fiction. This moment makes me wants to ignore the time that's running out, the time when someone whom I loved was leaving me in the absurdity of alone. I know death is the moment that will happen in human life, it is the fate, and we can’t escape from it. And I am writing here at the moment when my mother no longer recognizes me, and at which, though still capable of speaking or articulating, a little, she no longer calls me and for her and therefore for the rest of her life.

 I no longer have a name, that is what is happening, and when she nonetheless seems to reply to me, she is presumably replying to someone who happens to be me without her knowing it, if knowing means anything here, like the other day in Nice when I asked her if she was in pain (yes) then where?

It was 7 December 1989, she had in a rhetoric that could never have been hers, the audacity of this pregnancy about which she will alas, never know anything, no doubt knew nothing, and which, piercing the night replies to the question: I have a pain in my mother, as though she were speaking for me, both in my direction and in my place, I was born in a new place. I was opening my eyes through the other face, they was smiling and dropping the tears.

I stop for a moment over a pang of remorse, in any case over the admission I owe the reader, in truth that I owe my mother herself for the reader will have understood that I am writing for my mother, perhaps even for a woman, for if I were here writing for my mother, it would be for a living mother who does not recognize her son, and I am paraphrasing here for whomever no longer recognizes me, unless it be so that one should no longer recognize me, another way of saying, another version, so that people think they finally recognize me.

At this silent time, I just want to make you smile; I just want to make you happy--my mother [...]