A Serenade
Mir-Yashar Seyedbagheri
Matthew discovers the letters from Mama in Daddy’s bookshelves, in his study, tucked into a neat stack, a year’s worth. He slowly reads the letters, the words holding a kind of heavy weight, something frightening and intriguing. She promises to send for him once she’s found her niche. She’s a lounge singer in Colorado, but hopes to rise soon, to make something of herself, she says. They’ll start a new life, a life where they can just live without constraint, she says, though he doesn’t know what that quite means. There are some bad words in there, references to Daddy. She calls him a “motherfucker” and a “tyrant,” words that seem harsh, frightening.
Matthew’s in no man’s land, feeling everything collapsing around him, so-called truths. He tries to understand the words on the page, the many words that seem to drown him in their ink. Daddy’s always
told him she left for another man, didn’t have time for him. She was a two-bit singer, he said, gone for good. And while Matthew waited, waited for Mama, the letters never came. He kept waiting, not wanting
to disappoint her. He wanted to show Mama he was a good boy, a patient boy. If he just waited, she’d come back.
After about six months though, he started to forget. Maybe it was Daddy yelling at him, night after night, Daddy who looked like he wanted to cry, who looked so young, like a child himself. Daddy told him she didn’t understand, didn’t understand, and that Matthew didn’t understand either, couldn’t understand either, what it meant to make a nice home, to keep everything from falling off a precipice. He started to forget Mama who sang him to sleep, who flitted in and out like something beautiful from a fairy tale. At points, he even forgot what she looked like, or so it seemed. Matthew struggled to put it all back together, like a puzzle. Even now, he doesn’t know what to think, the words surrounding him, Mama’s, Daddy’s.
He reads letter after letter, tries to conjure her voice, the scent of her perfume, her lopsided smile. He tries to travel back in time, to go backwards, backwards into a dreamworld, to understand something. Instead he smells Daddy’s study, inhaling the deep furniture polish, the ugliness of his whiskey. He feels a vast emptiness in front of him, like a monster.
Matthew’s in no man’s land, feeling everything collapsing around him, so-called truths. He tries to understand the words on the page, the many words that seem to drown him in their ink. Daddy’s always
told him she left for another man, didn’t have time for him. She was a two-bit singer, he said, gone for good. And while Matthew waited, waited for Mama, the letters never came. He kept waiting, not wanting
to disappoint her. He wanted to show Mama he was a good boy, a patient boy. If he just waited, she’d come back.
After about six months though, he started to forget. Maybe it was Daddy yelling at him, night after night, Daddy who looked like he wanted to cry, who looked so young, like a child himself. Daddy told him she didn’t understand, didn’t understand, and that Matthew didn’t understand either, couldn’t understand either, what it meant to make a nice home, to keep everything from falling off a precipice. He started to forget Mama who sang him to sleep, who flitted in and out like something beautiful from a fairy tale. At points, he even forgot what she looked like, or so it seemed. Matthew struggled to put it all back together, like a puzzle. Even now, he doesn’t know what to think, the words surrounding him, Mama’s, Daddy’s.
He reads letter after letter, tries to conjure her voice, the scent of her perfume, her lopsided smile. He tries to travel back in time, to go backwards, backwards into a dreamworld, to understand something. Instead he smells Daddy’s study, inhaling the deep furniture polish, the ugliness of his whiskey. He feels a vast emptiness in front of him, like a monster.
