My mother, I write to you because of the questions I have and the time we have missed. The looming presence of disappearing time is a screaming train that follows me around constantly. I cannot imagine who I would be with you, or even who you are at all. I have heard of the Fuhrer taking “Communists,” are you one? I constantly think about your return, but will you ever be back? You left abruptly, for seemingly no reason, but what made you leave, mother? Why am I here; who are these parents that I have been given? I understand the odds of this letter reaching you, yet I still write it. This letter is like sending a letter in a glass bottle across the Atlantic Ocean hoping for it to reach you. If you are reading this, you may want to know
