Mercury-retrograde gremlins have been at work. Three, nay four times it has taken to get to this site. I must just go with it and try not to get agitated. It doesn’t help and it is for the most part beyond my understanding.
Do they like to receive my letters? I wonder. I write and then send them with the best intentions. I do. And I feel love for each and everyone as I write. It is old-fashioned, she called it so, it may have been lost in translation. I think about their faces as they open them. Is there that discomfort of guilt at perhaps having to reply. Some do and some don’t. And that is OK.
She gave away her embroideries as gifts. The last was to the man in the asylum. It lit up the wall. I remember the ones in the home. He was encouraged to make her a bird house in return. I think on it. I want to the same but what and to whom. I’ve already begun. Will she like it, want it even? It is for me, mostly. As are the letters. And isn’t that reason enough? He would say yes.