Good evening, Soren. I am again stressed and melancholy. I hope you are better. Summer is near — may it bring light to us both.
If we had never lost one another, you’d probably know that Oscar Wilde is one of my favorite writers. Did you know that he too lost a sister? I have tried and will try again to write stories symbolizing what happened, but I can never seem to find the endings for them. Endings require explanations, and I have none.
I can’t say anything happy today. I listened to the song you like a few days ago, Talking to the Moon by Bruno Mars, and cried for a long time. I pray you never think of us. I think of you all the time, and it is too much to bear.
I leave you with Wilde’s poem about his sister, Isola. It is titled Requiescat. The only difference between our circumstances and death is that death yields closure.
Tread lightly, she is near
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow.
All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.
Lily-like, white as snow,
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.
Coffin-board, heavy stone,
Lie on her breast,
I vex my heart alone
She is at rest.
Peace, Peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
All my life’s buried here,
Heap earth upon it.
With love,
Alice