Please forgive me if what I’m about to say isn’t terribly coherent.
Strike one: I don’t know how to start a letter to the Dalai Lama. Strike two: I’m not the chattiest fellow to ever grace the Midwest. Strike three: I have something difficult to tell you, which is to explain where your mom went and why she’s not writing you her daily epistle.
But even with three strikes against me, I’m still going to try.
I’m your half-brother, Mason. I assume you know me at least a little, though the last time you laid eyes on me, I had thirty-three percent more hair, a bushy beard, and a belief that life would continue along a predictable trajectory. This last part was, of course, crushed by all that followed.
At our last meeting, you were two, cute, and destined for greatness. Perhaps you knew more than the rest of us about what the future would hold.
I know, I know. I should avoid sentimental reminiscence and move straight to the issue of where your mom is.
First thing you need to know: DON’T WORRY.
I’m sure Jane is alive.
Jill Riddell is a writer in Chicago. She teaches at the School of the Art Institute and has a weakness for nature, magic, and pennies abandoned in sidewalk cracks.