Xosé Monteagudo

Sample

My mother’s last letter arrived three months after her death. When I opened the postbox and collected the day’s mail, among all the letters from the bank and the advertising leaflets, I was surprised to see an envelope with my address printed in block letters. I read the opening sentence (that unusual and unsettling “Dear Son”) and turned the handwritten page over. I confirmed that the message ended with the nervous, Gothic features of my mother’s signature, picked up the envelope again and searched for a return address, but there wasn’t one.

To begin with, I calculated she must have posted the letter shortly before dying and the letter had been sitting in post offices for the last three months, but when I paid attention to the postmark, I realized the letter had suffered no delay between being deposited in a postbox in Pontevedra and reaching my hands in London. At this point, I started to think that the paper I held in front of me was a posthumous act with which my mother intended to interfere in my life.

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