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Description
There is a childhood story that I can recall.
You see, my grandmother was drinking a lot. In fact, her addiction was so terrible that when we had to leave for home after a week of staying at her country house, I begged grandma not to drink by writing it on a blackboard and putting at a visible spot. I prayed for my words to help her chase bad thoughts away.
My parents always yelled at her, hit her hands and made her spend whole night in the hallway. Sometimes we had to wait so long for grandma to open the front door, as she slowly passed room after room, shuffling around, pressing shoulders against the walls and struggling not to fall.
She died when I was seven. The worn-out body of hers simply did not make it.
In our family circle we've always had those small talks of heaven and hell popping up in the middle of an hour. From the meanings given away I learnt that thieves, murderers and drunkards descend below the ground, while others, being chosen by God, ascend to the sky.
Not so long after my grandmother's death, when I realised what had happened, a terrible longing settled in. The one that was too grizzly and enormous.
This is why I started writing her letters and burying them in the soil of the backyard. As a child I vividly imagined how a giant creature, Earthen Postman, wanders deep below our feet, on the inner side of the world, how he picks up my letters and delivers them to the grandma.

Description
There is a childhood story that I can recall.
You see, my grandmother was drinking a lot. In fact, her addiction was so terrible that when we had to leave for home after a week of staying at her country house, I begged grandma not to drink by writing it on a blackboard and putting at a visible spot. I prayed for my words to help her chase bad thoughts away.
My parents always yelled at her, hit her hands and made her spend whole night in the hallway. Sometimes we had to wait so long for grandma to open the front door, as she slowly passed room after room, shuffling around, pressing shoulders against the walls and struggling not to fall.
She died when I was seven. The worn-out body of hers simply did not make it.
In our family circle we've always had those small talks of heaven and hell popping up in the middle of an hour. From the meanings given away I learnt that thieves, murderers and drunkards descend below the ground, while others, being chosen by God, ascend to the sky.
Not so long after my grandmother's death, when I realised what had happened, a terrible longing settled in. The one that was too grizzly and enormous.
This is why I started writing her letters and burying them in the soil of the backyard. As a child I vividly imagined how a giant creature, Earthen Postman, wanders deep below our feet, on the inner side of the world, how he picks up my letters and delivers them to the grandma.