WRITING HOME

by Thomas Ligotti

Dear Mom and Dad,

I always wanted to ask:

when you went through the motions

that brought me to this dubious world,

did you ever pause to think

that I might rather you didn’t?

Were you so possessed

you could not pause to consider

the full repercussions of making it?

Of course, it behooves me

to extend the benefit of the doubt,

to attribute to you some vague notion

that you acted in my interest, saving

me from my peregrinations in nonexistence,

a stranger to being, bumbling in darkness

for the light of life on this earth.

Such is a common rationalization,

and so I must allow its hold upon you.

Yet I must also posit that all you wanted

was to be in with the crowd, the ancient mob

that cheered you on with mad eyes, flared nostrils,

and spittle-dripping chins—those ones

whose approval you secretly sought.

All of these are plausible explanations

for what you did in a chamber cut off

from cool reflection in favor of the primal rite.

Whatever your reasons, the fact remains

of my emergence from that dilated aperture.

Whatever your excuses, I must confess

I’ve always lamented the day you met.

All that aside, I just wanted to take some time,

having reached the moment in which

I’ll make an end to what you began,

to say that I forgive you.