The Whisperer

Chapter 31

Dear Rikard Josef,

Here I sit by the cell window and think of you. And about myself as well. How far do you think words can lead us? Can they bring us together again, will we meet again? I am not asking for much. But if I neglected you and did not give you what you needed, and in that way drove you from home, I ask for your forgiveness a thousand times over. I beg on my knees, because I am truly on my knees now. And if you cannot forgive me, that too I will bear, because I had not expected you to make contact at all. But you should know that I will never judge you, I just want to understand, in the same way that I hope to be understood. Everyone has their reasons, their motives and despair. All this talk of people having a choice. What does it mean? Does it mean that every person, in every society and in every situation, truly has a choice? And that they can make the right choice? Would it not be easy then to navigate the legal system? Would it not be easy to pass judgement and hand out punishment? Why then does the concept ‘extenuating circumstances’ exist at all, which allows for certain crimes to be judged differently or even dismissed? Does that not amount to an admission that many people do not have a choice?

If this is the life I am to have, this cell with its narrow bed, and a small desk by the window, then I will accept it without complaint. It is still light in the morning and dark in the evening. I fill my lungs with air, and my heart, which is also good, continues to beat. This is a life, too. But I am not making any plans, do not want to think ahead. It is the curse of mankind that we live our whole lives in fear. Of what might happen, tomorrow or next year. Or we live in fear of old sins, a mongrel that snaps at our heels, and that sooner or later will catch up with us. Instead of walking out of the house when the sun is high, lifting our faces and feeling its warmth on our cheeks. Your grandfather often did that. And it gave him pleasure enough for one day. I have always been content with little. When you came into the world, you were a treasure I never dreamt I would have, which is why I held you so tight, and carried you in my arms. I often stood at the window watching you, when you sat on the lawn playing, or in the snow with your pompom hat on, and snot running out of your nose. I kept an eye on all the cars that drove past, to see if any of them slowed down — I studied everyone who walked down the road. And if they looked at you for too long, or stopped to say a few words, if you were making a nice snowman for instance, I would come rushing out. And I would stare hard at them to demonstrate that you were mine and that I was responsible for you. That is probably why you had to cut free in the end.

Perhaps I got what I deserved.

What can I say in my defence? If you never have your own children, you will never be able to understand how hard it is to do everything right. I hope with all my heart that your days pass well. And the hours, and minutes, and all the dark nights.

Mummy