Dear Darling Son (and That Person You Married),
Please don't worry about me. I'm just fine considering I can't breathe or eat. The important thing is that you are doing well, thousands of miles away from your ailing mother.
I've sent along my last ten dollars in this letter, which I hope you'll spend on my Grandchildren. Lord knows their mother never buys them anything nice. They look so thin in their pictures, poor babies. But then, I guess you two do save a lot of money shopping for their clothes at the Salvation Army surplus stores and all.
Thank you so much for the flowers, dear boy. I put them in the freezer so they'll stay fresh for my grave. Which reminds me -- we buried Grandma last week. I know she died years ago, but I got to yearning for a good funeral, so Aunt Viola and I dug her up and had the services all over again. I would have invited you, but I know that woman you live with would never let you come. Why, I bet she's never even watched that videotape of my hemorrhoid surgery, has she?
Well son, it's time for me to crawl off to bed now. I broke my cane beating off a gang of muggers last week, but don't you worry about me. I'm also getting used to the cold since they turned my heat off and actually kind-of grateful since the frost on my bed numbs my constant pain. Now don't you even think about sending any more money, because I know you need it for those expensive family vacations you take every year; as well as all those designer clothes your gold-digger demands you buy her.
Give my love to my darling Grandbabies and my regards to whatever-her-name-is -- the one who stole you screaming and kicking from your mother's loving arms, and dragged you up to that God forsaken lawless Sodom she calls a state.
With Love,
MOM
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