This poem is dedicated to Ted Chiang.
Monday September 23rd, 1991
What is this?
A letter I wrote
—am writing—
for you to find after your brother
murders me.
Is this a joke?
It is not.
It’s November 3rd, 2015,
and my funeral was two weeks ago.
Closed casquet.
The stab wounds were too brutal.
Your brother almost decapitated me
in his rage.
There was no way to make my death
presentable.
I don’t believe you.
You will.
You do.
I will stop reading.
You did not.
How can it be possible?
A blank page follows no linear concept of time.
It feels like we are simply messaging each other.
We are. And we are also
alone in my room,
years apart.
And you are controlling the conversation.
Am I?
You are already gone.
I am.
Killed.
I was. I will be.
Did you know he was going to do it?
Before I ever held him in my arms,
I felt him stab me.
Why did you let him do it, then?
You knew he was going to kill you,
and yet you rolled out the purple carpet for him
like a king,
like a god.
He is my son. I couldn’t turn away from him.
You could have stopped him.
I couldn’t.
You could have chosen not to have him,
not to raise him.
You could have given him to someone else.
Anyone else.
I couldn’t. Ask your grandparents.
Why?!
Because
to choose other than I am,
I would have to be blind to fate.
Being blind to fate,
I can only choose as I am.
I don’t understand.
Yes, you do.
You are just angry.
Just angry.
Aren’t you?
I’m furious.
You are heartbroken.
I hate him.
I know you do.
I will never forgive him.
You don’t have to.
Do you?
I love him.
He could only choose
what he was.
But he could have changed.
He could have,
but he didn’t.
Not yet.
Why are you defending him?
Don’t you want to punish him?
It’s not him you want to punish,
darling.
He didn’t even try to change.
You can say it.
I don’t want to blame you.
But you do.
You could have made him change.
There is no way I could have unmade
my son.
You left me all alone.
And I have regretted it every second
of my life.
There are only two more questions.
Yes.
Did I remember to say I love you?
Have you already forgotten our goodbye,
years ago,
by the lake?
I don’t want you to go.
Darling,
I’m already gone.
Cassandra Alejandrina Ríos
(Editors’ Note: The Spanish version of this poem was originally published by Revista Larus and is translated here by the author.)
© 2025 E. N. Díaz
