A Letter To My Dearest

A Window to the Past, Seen Through Your Silence

Hello dearest.

I hope you are well. How are your siblings? It feels as though it has been so long since I last spoke to them. In fact, it has been quite some time since you have responded to any of my letters. I always double-check the address to ensure it’s correct before posting it. You know I have a habit of mixing numbers and street names around. I like to think you would have updated me if you had moved, so I will assume that you are busy and waiting for the right time to respond. That’s ok, sometimes I do that as well.

The weather is changing here, and not for the better (You’ll remember the harshness that winter brings to these northern parts). Only yesterday, I counted three occasions where I felt my feet slide out from under me. Thankfully, I am still just as cautious as before and so never put all my weight into a single step, but nonetheless, I become acutely aware of my steps and find myself scuttling the rest of the way home. This caution slows me down, but for all the complaints I still have about the cold, I have found that the brisk air and grey skies are far more calming to experience when you don’t try to rush away from them. Have you noticed that? I remember you like this time of year. Do you recall when we’d play out in the fields, and you’d tell me to watch as you exhaled, pretending to smoke a cigarette? The cold air that caught your breath didn’t feel as cold back then. Now, I can’t leave my home without wearing three layers of thick jumpers. I have placed a photo of that same field in this letter. As you can see, it hasn’t changed much. The trees still stand way off in the distance, but it feels empty. Of course, there’s no one there, but I don’t mean empty in a spatial sense: I don’t see the land, I see the memories I have on this land. It acts as a lens or a window that I am looking through to experience something I cannot. I’m sure you understand. You always understood.

The farm is holding up, but we are thinking about selling one of the fields. Nothing too radical, merely a small section that borders the tree line. A young man approached me a number of days ago to enquire about the potential price and said something about beekeeping or grazing land, but I honestly can’t remember. In all honesty, I don’t think I really care either. You know that this farm never brought in much; we always had enough to get by, but each passing year, I watch as the winter swoops in, covering the plains with its crisp white sheet, and come summer, the grass doesn’t look as vibrant as it did the year previous. Who knows, I have no way to compare and am merely talking from observation, but I can’t help worrying that this land is dying. I quoted him a good price, and he scribbled it down on his hand, leaving not too long after that. Hopefully, he’ll come back soon and accept the offer, but you know what these folks are like: if there’s an opportunity, then there’s room to negotiate.

I miss you terribly but have found comfort in this poem. It is reassuring to know I am not the only one to feel the weight of someone’s absence.

When at the still and solemn hour of night,
I press my lonely couch to find repose;
Joyless I watch the pale moon’s chilling light,
Where thro’ the mould’ring tow’r the north-wind blows;
My fev’rish lids no balmy slumbers own,
Still my sad bosom beats for thee alone:
Nor shall its aching fibres cease to smart,
‘Till death’s cold spell is twin’d about my heart.

I will send you another letter in a few weeks, but I hope to hear from you before that.

As always, with love.