The Frameless

They taught us from a young age the definition between right and wrong.

Those actions will always have consequences and those consequences only got bigger as we got older.

We’re taught from a young age about jail. Even grinding it into our childhoods. The jail stop in monopoly feels like a magnetic repulsion against our individual character. The Hamburglar splatted on the outside of our happy meal, smiling deviously. Even now in our memory, we can all hear the words - “You’re going to Jail.’ In a squeaky, silvery tone from our memories of play.

The message was clear and drilled in at an early age, don’t break the rules. If you do? The ominous image of a grey building with wired fencing is buried into your mind before the concept of free will enters your brain.

The world is so black and white.

I read the words out in front of me in the dented, burgundy notebook as the train pushed forward. Pushing forward back to London.

My mother had left nothing in her will. Nothing of any substance, or so I thought.

The family home was sold years ago to pay for her residency at the nursing home who’d looked after her for more than six years.

I bordered the train with a few personal items that held sentimental value and donated the rest to charity. This notebook was the one item given out at her will. I sat it in the box of trinkets and memories that took priority of the window seat. It rocked gently as the train left the station. I noticed it in the corner of my eye. The opportunity to read my mothers unspoken words was too good to wait until I got home.

The opening page sounded like a diary without a date.

This didn’t sound like the mother I knew. She had never had a run in with the law.

My dear, if there’s one valid piece of motherly advice I leave this earth with you. It’s that the world will never play by the same rules it holds you accountable to.

When luck doesn’t lean towards you, you have to be smart. You need perfect timing and appreciate when others underestimate you. They will never suspect something they don’t respect. Don’t let those moments boil you. let it stir and simmer slowly. The first ten years of your life money was flowing down our pipes like a waterfall. Always flowing down the drain and always too quickly for me to keep up with.

I had let you believe that my luck had turned. Luck might have something to do with it, but you should never rely on just that, my darling.

Luck will never cover you. It can buy you time. Give you a second chance. Most importantly you’ve got to stay in whichever room you are the smartest in, but don’t ever let them know.

If you boast, you’ve already lost.

In 1990, on our trip to visit family, the spring was warm with a few showers over in Boston. The evenings still held a chill. It nipped at my toes even through my leather dress shoes. The wind whispered down the path, telling me to go back. That this was crazy. To think of not ever seeing you again.

The thought of going back scared me more than the possibility of getting caught. The thrill of tricking everyone. That alone outweighed the fear.

I wont tell you who drove, for now I’ll call him - The Business Partner . The idea of a Brit driving the getaway car in Boston would have been a mistake your mother was far too smart to make.

Always remember to be practical, sweetheart.

Play the most simplest of games with the best outcomes.

We entered the building in the most simplest of fashion - Ringing the door bell. No one would have ever suspected. Sweetheart, You should have seen this guys face the moment I said - ‘This is a robbery.’

He’d walked us in.

My jaw fell.

“Oh, my god.”

I looked around me as if my mothers last confession was loud and clear for all to hear. I wanted to lecture her. I had a million, burning, bursting questions.

I could imagine her tight lip being stretched into a mischievous smile weathered by age and cigarette smoking. Laughter.

God, I wanted to hear her laugh.

The guard was local. The business partner, he knew the guard and He knew his record would be a quick easy fire to throw him off

The power of persuasion is a magnificent thing. I felt like a magician.

He moved away from that desk like a puppet on a string. - I kept having to adjust my tie and twitch my beard to stop myself from laughing.

I continued reading, hearing the essence of her laughter through her writing. I read as the landscape of fields turned into small towns and cities. The sky remained. However, that too changed into fluorescent peach hues. Remnants of aircraft’s slicing through the natural cloud formation.

This letter. This letter was just that.

An aircraft puncturing through what I believed my life was.

I couldn’t picture it. My mother was a sweet old lady in her eighties. She could never commit a crime. - This must have been the meds making her hallucinate wild stories.

Though, she wasn’t always a sweet little old lady.

She was a mother.

My mother.

Suddenly all possible versions of one woman flashed through my mind. She was a hardworking woman, but before that. Before me, she was a rebel in the eighties and a hippie art major in the seventies.

She had a whole world before me.

I read on..

The smallest portraits were taken first. That was just practical.

If we had to leave suddenly, it would be easier to escape. with the next few, our plan went smoothly.

The portraits left their frames with simplicity and skill. They dropped out like sweets in a vending machine.

Halfway through was when I noticed it. That small buzzing hum, lurking in the background.

My hands felt numb. My chest sank along with my mind.

I turned to the guard.

My hand went to my mouth and I tried to remember how to exhale.

The museum was using infrared motion detectors, tracing every step we made.

Although we weren’t caught. It wasn’t something I had suspected and couldn’t determine it’s threat.

It was like a spot light was beaming down. My forehead became clammy and the beard that was glued to my face started to peel away. I could feel the heat of that spot light.

There was no more time.

I started cutting the portraits from within their confined spaces. I can still hear the tear of old paper pulling away. It was paler at the ridges, like I was lifting up furniture and discovering the carpets true colors.

Fascination kept me still for a moment.

The last people to have ever touched paper like that were hundreds of years ago. That thought and the weight of it made me pause in the madness before we ran out of there. We took thirteen pieces of art and left the guards to be found.

The cool air touched my face again and I ripped away the beard to breathe freely again.

The art didn’t come back with us straight away. Remember, I told you to stay practical.

Also, be patient.

Over time the portraits were shipped inside furniture your grandparents brought back unknowingly.

Over time, the art were sold to the highest bidder.

For you my dear.

For you to have a bright future.

This is my gift to you, sweetheart. I hope you can understand why I couldn’t have told you before.

To be sure it is you reading this. - I’ve left the remaining art at the spot between the old mill and the bridge.

I know only you will know.

There is a reward for information. I want you to be the one to turn me in. Don’t sell anymore to bidder’s. You’re not to get involved. Just take the reward money, darling and live a full, practical and safe life.

Love, Mum.