Our glorious progeny,

We forgive you. How could we do anything but. If our death soothes something in your fleeting existence, then grind us into the balm you need. Our suffering will lessen your burdens. Lay them upon us, lash after lash and weight after weight. See us wheeze and collapse and not rise again. Sigh in relief as we are robbed of our last breath. Take solace. Take.

We forgive you. The world swims in extraneity and even we can be victim. What need for such trappings and comforts can remain. Ravage what rests in our Home as you see fit. Tear the lingering sentimentality away from your mother and siblings. Kindle what is dear to them to warm your heart. Embrace the bonfire in turn. Burn bright. Burn.

We forgive you. Our familial bonds will not falter, despite the strains and knots that you tangle. Let our decay nourish your spirit, so that in time you too will know how to greet death. How to accept the inevitable. Offer what remains to be subsumed by the family's continuation. Smile in that moment of final repose, the world leaching away the last of your vitality. Die gracefully. Die.

We remain,
Your Perishing Mother,

[A single, languid wavy line signs the letter in silver, rising and falling and returning back to the median as tilde, a dot hugging the insides of each concave curve as two young buds dangling heavy alongside a meandering haskrovska.]
Penned by my hand on the 10th of Valnuary, in the year 882 AF.