Dear Mother,

Don’t worry about me. I know what people are saying, but I tell you, I am well. Tell my father for me that I am well.

Mother, you have not seen Dimeji. You have not. Because if you had – oh mother, you would never suggest I left him; the words would freeze on your brain, the thought would not occur, the synapses will refuse to transmit, your mind would reject the words, your mouth will not utter them, your lips will not form them, your voice would not carry.

No mother, you listen to their report and ask me to leave. But mother, they are wrong.

Why don’t you ask me of the beauty of his voice, husky and deep, it rumbles in his barrel of a chest.
And that chest, I rest my head on it at the end of my day’s labours. And his laughter, deep and throaty and earthy and rich and… oh mother, words fail me.

His eyes when they gaze at me are clear and beautiful, mother. His eyes. Like a thousand turbulent storms in a small sea, like the fires of a hundred hells – hot, scalding, they sear me to my soul, brand me as his – his eyes.

His lips are chiseled mother, hard and firm, but when they meet mine, they melt like marshmallows; this is true.

Mother, have you seen his hands? Strong, capable, they provide for me.
So, if he raises them at me from time to time, forgive me mother if I stay, for words will never convey the love I bear him, and the love he bears me.

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