Letters from Heaven

Mom really likes writing letters and give it as a present to someone who's special to her. I was five years old back then when I can somewhat understand what she's been doing.

"Mommy, is that for me?" i asked. She stopped writing as she smiled at me. "No sweetie, it's for your dad," she answered that made me get confused.

"But he's already gone mommy," her smile slightly faded. I felt her hand caressed my head. "That's the point, hun. I'm going to send him a letter to heaven. I bet he's in good state there and I want to inform him that we're also doing fine here."

"Oh, oh! That's so sweet mom! I also want to send a letter, can I? Can I?" mom chuckled with my excitement. "Of course sweetie, come here, i'll teach you how to write one," she carried me to sit on her lap and taught me things that I never knew i'd love doing this much. Up until now that i'm turning 18.

I blew the dusts above this box i'm holding. And I regret doing it. "The heck? When did I learn inhaling dust this much?" I can hardly speak because I was coughing the whole time. Why did I blow those dust when I could've use feather duster anyway?

"Letters from heaven," that's the label on this box that I personally wrote when I was 15. I opened it slowly because I feel like being so dramatic right now, kidding aside. I sighed. Okay, these are letters from someone so dear to me. It's been sent to me on my birthdays and sometimes on special holidays such as Christmas. And it made me anticipate those occasions so much for I know, I can receive a letter again.

But it's been years since I stopped writing back to the sender. I can still receive those letters, but I don't read or even open them at all. It's just that... I realized, it was pointless.

I was 10 years old when mom started to stay away from me. She said there's a monster inside her and she don't want it to live inside me, and it'll be only possible if she's inside her room—door and windows are closed and only that girl in a white uniform can enter to check her up or to give her food. I can only see her through the window and all througout her stay there, she was writing.

But one day, I woke up not seeing her inside that room again. I was young and naive that time, I don't even know why someone from DSWD made me live in their custody. I miss my mom so bad, and i've been asking anyone and myself "will she ever come back to get me? And when it'll be going to happen?" But I never get an answer. Not until my 11th birthday came, and for the first time, I received a letter. It's from her.

12...13...14th birthday... I see myself running to the gate to check the mail box. And everytime I see that letter, I felt so giddy and hopeful that she'll come back one of these days that's why I always write back. All of the letters contains "Happy birthday, dear Camille. How are you? Are you doing well? I hope you're living a fine life for i'm also doing fine here." And some bonus sentences that sometimes say "You're 13 now, I bet you're already having a crush on someone. Sorry, sweetie, i'm not there to witness it and give you love advices. But please do remember that i'm always by your side, guiding and watching you."

I felt my eyes tear up. All these years i've been so hopeful about something that won't... really happen again. No one ever told me the truth not until I decided to find answers on my own. I was 15—4 years after that pandemic ended, when I accidentally knew something about what really happened to my mom. She was a COVID-19 patient, no wonder why she stayed inside that room so that I won't get infected, and she... she hid it all from me. I'm aware that she has a heart disease, that's why I never believed that she died because of that stupid virus! Because what if it's not? What if she... what if it's not? But they never let me saw her again for the last time.

She was buried somewhere—in a place that I don't even know together with those other patients who died with that virus, without me knowing.

That's when I finally stopped writing back to her. But I can still receive those letters, I just don't read or even open them at all, because it pains me. It literally break my heart thinking that those were the letters she wrote when she's been quarantined on her own room—that she knew... she knew that she'll be gone soon and she's been enduring those pain, without me knowing.

I realized reading it is pointless, writing back is pointless, hoping is pointless... because no one's coming back... And i'm still alone.