The lost son

I knew a woman whose only son went at war at a very young age and left her alone in her house. The very next day she covered herself in black and started mourning.

“War takes them all,” she said, “he will never come back, I know.”

She put a picture of him on a small pedestal. Day by day she collected things and arranged them around it, trying to make up what he would have done with them if he hadn’t been dead. She started living by the rhythm of rituals, preoccupying herself in thoughts of her late son. She put two plates at the table at the right hours, lighted candles and soothed herself with memories of things that would never happen. Years went by and even though she wasn’t happy, she found a way to shut herself in a world of her own that made her feel comfortable. She never became aware of the letters that slowly piled up in her mailbox and remained unopened.

One day a knock at her door made her reluctantly interrupt one of her daily two-side monologues in front of the pedestal. A stranger stood outside and he had her son’s face. There’s one word that could describe what followed – confusion. This man, all flesh and blood, walked around her house, removing the very fundamentals of her life one by one, breaking down this place inside of her where she felt safe at home. She was horrified. Then she got angry.

“I look at you,” she said, “and I don’t know you. All I see is a murderer. You killed my son and you are killing me. Go away from here and never come back.”

All sons she had were imaginary. The only real one she did not let in.