Dear Mother,

As I mark pen to paper, desperately searching for some familiarity within the darkness that has become my existence, I wonder, how can you turn your face from me? As I struggle beneath the whip of the ship master, I do not fail to dry my sweaty palms, and compose my thoughts for you. As I suffer within this watery misery, dream in imagined ecstasy of digging my toes deep into soil, I do not fail to clear my mind and write to you. They say the rule of the ship is one of equality, but I will tell you that the black of my skin is still a token that weighs heavy in my pocket. And when the consistency of this inequality causes my heart to become bruised, my dignity badly battered, for you, mother, I piece myself together and find a way to ensure you know I still exist. When you left me in the city, to live within the Matthias Kingdom, did you take to the paper with pen, set aside a small portion of your life for me? When I was taken away from you, dragged into the hell that is the South, did you comfort me? And though you fought to bring me back, when I finally returned, did I not forgive you for letting me go? As your son, it was my duty to absolve you for your actions. Why can you not do the same for me? All I want, mother, is to hear from you. To know the growth in the lives of my sisters and cousins. To know you think of me. Why is this too much to ask?

At Sea,

Peter