Letter number 20 is a heartbreaking letter written by a mother to her missing daughter. As of today she is still missing. The letter is written by the writer of the blog Americana Injustica.
2014 Letters to a Ghost.
I awoke this morning, chilled by the residual sweat of a nightmare…saturated by a deepened fear for your safety; trapped within the confines of a place I’ve long-anticipated on a sub-conscious level that’s only obvious to me now that I’m here. I don’t know how many New Years I’ve spent uneasy over you – over what’s happened to you in your life that’s molded you into someone so hollow – so empty myself, as a result of such emptiness. Today, New Year’s Day 2014, I awoke cursing the succession of time and the science of space; I woke up fearing the year ahead’s events as much as I had gone to sleep hating those of last year. I predict a lot of me, in fear for your very livelihood from one day to the next; I foresee plenty of hopeless nights defined by worry and dread – the growing anxiety being attached to the sound of my cell phone ringing. I predict myself desperately burying my heels into the increasingly fickle ball of hope that has lost its warmth and begun to fizzle. After our tearful and emotionally turbulent Thanksgiving, I had no lingering doubts about your plans to run again if you pulled off a visit home for Christmas, and I knew that you had zero intentions of ever going back there, if you ran.
I was, and am now – still somehow hoping beyond hope that you will be miraculously struck by a bolt of reason and reconsider; your naivety terrifies me. Anybody who knows me at all knows exactly what it is that eats me up inside with every moment that goes by without you accounted for: FEAR. I innately brood over your well-being with every single breath that I take; I make offerings to the dimming ball of hope in my heart that you’ll ever come home again. I can’t help but to share with you, how very grim and unwelcome the year ahead feels to me today, without your presence to light the dark paths shooting out in every direction from my tired feet. I hope from the bottom of my being – that wherever you are on this New Year’s Day, you’re safe and warm with food in your belly and shiny nail polish on your fingertips, that you’re smile is busy in blessing the crowd that surrounds you with its unmatched brightness – I hope that you’re not afraid anymore, that you been empowered and feel strong in the place that you’ve chosen to run away to. I hope that somehow, some way – for this year ahead, more than anything else – I hope you know that I love you, Boo…that’s one thing that’s always renewed by hope and stays unchanged forever. I’m so very worried about you; I hope you come home soon.