And so I died, beloved one,
not because I was sick or because someone hurt me,
but because we live in a world not real
and a writer felt it was needful for “story progression”
that you grow up without me.
I wish you had been old enough that I could explain.
But because it wasn’t forbidden, I stayed.
I dwelt in your shadow, and could sometimes speak in your dreams.
Your father is not the weakling or absentee that he is portrayed.
He grew up in a different time,
when fathers spent time with sons
and mothers with daughters,
though both parents fiercely loved their children
without regard of buckles or bows.
I have learned so many things that he was not told
or given to learn
but this I know:
you are his heart, as you are mine.
Likewise, the witch who came.
She, too, had children who were her heart,
taken from her or she from them.
She does not speak of it where anyone can hear,
but her heart’s cry is for her little ones.
She did not hate you.
She hated herself, for not keeping her children safe,
and saw in you only pain.
This writer of long ago did not allow this to be told.
This writer thought, wrongly, that children cannot understand that life
is many threads of many colors,
not only black and white.
And now you, my darling,
are a power on your own behalf.
I still dwell in your shadow, still speak to you in your dreams.
And I hear that you are determined not to make the same mistakes.
I admit, thus far you have made different mistakes,
but not that one.
But I do not understand this choice you have made.
Surely, with the example before you, you can choose a different path.
Have you not learned that,
should all who behold you love you and despair
despair will be your reflection as well?
Oh my beloved child,
MUST you become an editor?