How are you doing? Mom told me that some kids in Arizona are going back to school already. Isn’t that sad? They get out in May, but let them have this, man. I suppose they don’t have to search for nice weather, though.
We had to put one of the roosters with the hens because he was being bullied. He started harassing the hens in turn, but it seems to have died down. I don’t think any new chicks are coming. The boys have lots of anger in their hearts, which is surprising coming from a few birds who live in a barn next to a nice, grassy lawn. I’d be very relaxed. But the roosters are self-contained rage packets. Whenever I go outside, I have to pay a toll of some seeds to not be cockadoodledoo-ed at. If it’s (He’s? She’s?) alive, how is the fish? Poor Pebbles(?) was so sickly. It had a very pretty white color, though. Wasn’t it a type of goldfish called ‘lacy’ or something of the like? It’s been so long, I cannot remember.
I don’t like feeling like I’m speaking to an empty audience. I wonder if anyone has left any comments. I’m not sure why they would, if they were not you. I often forget anyone else sees these, and that they are not normal letters (If they were normal letters, I’d use a wax seal on the envelope. Wouldn’t that look pretty?).
What is there to say? ‘I miss you’ cannot cover the truth of loss. I often wish I could leave flowers at your doorstep, like it were a grave. Did I tell you about the dream I had some months ago, where we were at the pool (the little one behind the houses, that Mom (Mel) took us to), like it was years ago? You looked to me so real, and were not angry or afraid of me, as if nothing had happened, and I didn’t know what to do. Have you dreamed similar dreams? I have had them so often over these past five years, that I suspect you have too. I hope they don’t bring you as much pain as they do for me.
I worry that I talk about myself too much here. Forgive me for it. I leave you with this poem I found relatable, and thought of you when I read it. It is called The Dead Poet by Alfred Douglas, regarding Oscar Wilde, his partner.
I dreamed of him last night, I saw his face
All radiant and unshadowed of distress,
And as of old, in music measureless,
I heard his golden voice and marked him trace
Under the common thing the hidden grace,
And conjure wonder out of emptiness,
Till mean things put on beauty like a dress
And all the world was an enchanted place.
And then methought outside a fast locked gate
I mourned the loss of unrecorded words,
Forgotten tales and mysteries half said,
Wonders that might have been articulate,
And voiceless thoughts like murdered singing birds.
And so I woke and knew that he was dead.
With love,
Alice