Френсису несколько лет за двадцать, он симпатичен и...

Francis is in his twenties
he's cute and always drunk.
Loves to dress with a needle,
longs to go overseas.
Francis knows no boundaries in anything:
girls, poker and alcohol ...
Francis ends up in the hospital: sickness, shortness of breath, pain.
The doctor evaluates the color of the skin, measures the pulse on the wrist, listens to the lungs, the heart too, looks at the nails and proteins. The doctor sighs: "What a pity!" Francis is clear that he is not a fool, in general, he has not long left - there is either syphilis, or cancer.
Three months, maybe five - no more. If at sea, maybe six. Soon he will have to inject or eat something from pain. Francis nods, picks up a piece of paper with a finely detailed misfortune. The doctor outside the door sighs heavily - sorry for the patient, so young!

This is the beginning of the everyday drama. Only after paying for the visit to the doctor, Francis comes to his mother with a smile: “Mom, I want to see the world. I got tired of the city gloss too much, I would go to Cambodia, Vietnam, Nepal ... Mom, you remember, as a boy I dreamed of traveling. "
Gray-haired mother, sighing furtively, looks at Francis through the lorgnette: “Darling, of course, everything is all right, well, go, why not! I will pray every day, Francis, my beloved son, do not forget to write to me from there, and return home as soon as possible. "
Having made a promise to his old mother to write letters for many, many years, Francis takes a bag with things and takes a ticket to the ship. Let Mother not know the grief, Francis thinks, as she goes on board.
Time is running out. A ship at sea, a shroud of rain overhead.
Overseas - forever summer. To avoid the bustle of the world, Francis rents a house for himself somewhere, where the sound of the surf and the sea breeze. So, wiping off the moisture from his whiskey, sitting down on the porch at the bureau desk, he takes out a blank sheet of paper, also an inkwell and a quill. The bouts of pain twisted again. At night, apparently, will not fall asleep at all. “Hello, Mother. Alive? Are you healthy? As usual, I'm happy with everything. "
At night, the pain really does not sleep. Francis, putting on a robe, gets up, drinks water again - and writes letters, writes for many years to come. About travel, mountains, countries, meetings, parting and cities, the taste of milk, the aroma of saffron ... Simple and fun. As always.
Mother, reading letters, cries, tears flow down the white sheets: "Francis, dear, my beloved boy, it's so good that you are happy there." He has long been addicted to injections, a hell of a pain to leave the bed. But ten letters a day, ten stories for five weeks. The handwriting is uneven - from terrible pain: "Mom, I'm sorry, we are shaking on the way!" Letters end with a joke; "I almost got married here again!"
On the ocean coast, waves are caught from the monsoon flowing from the sky. Francis will not be hurt anymore, Francis is looking at his last dream, wrapped in a shroud, dressed in a robe ... Smells of sandal behind his back. A local priest quietly reads to the coffin a parting word to another world.
The swarthy Asian servant on Wednesdays, also on Fridays at two o'clock carries envelopes with delirium to the post office, hundreds of stories from the dead. And a year later - there is no escape, old age is not a joy, as they say, the mother died - it grabbed my heart.
The years go by. For many years in a row, letters float from across the ocean, as if hope is still alive.
The postman carries it in his bag
from no one to no one word.