Letters can form the most powerful example of the written word. They are personal communications to one single other, from one single other. They are private. They do not pander to the affections of a wider audience; nor their judgement. To receive a letter can be a beautiful or painful thing; there is little in between. Letters are a declaration of what was, what is, or what might yet be. They are one and all confessions of a type.
Letters to Mum, chart the intermittent ups and downs through life of me, Thomas Robert Rowling, as I present to my Mother my often troubled thoughts, simple observations and innocent questioning of the very fabric and morality of a society I am entwined in, but by equal measure far removed from.
Visiting my Mother in hospital where she lays comatose, I was presented with a box of letters by a nurse. My letters. In a withdrawn state, discovering the letters unopened I suffered the ignominy of breaking myself the seal of each, one at a time, as the only means by which I could conger words to speak.
Memories I once thought banished by hand and pen, are once more brought to life by written word on paper. They were meant to be just letters to Mum; to me, they are now dead monologues risen.