Hand Cramps

My Dearest Love,

How is the weather where you are? Here it is cold with fitful bursts of snow. Not really enough to make us all satisfied that we are once again exhibiting survival characteristics in the frozen north, but enough to make for slushy roads that instantly coat the car with a brown-grey scum of frozen dirt and salt.

I have spent the better part of the last twenty-four hours slowly copying letters to your sisters from the original word.doc printed format to laboriously written, long-hand versions on nice paper with colored ink. One was four pages long, the other five. My hand hurts in ways that it has not since the days of sitting in a crowded auditorium, furiously taking notes while some professor or TA with English as a mangled third language held forth until the bell rang.

Now that they are written, I am having a spell of pre-delivery rejection. I feel bleak and depressed. My heart is not in the game any longer. I do this because I believe our children deserve better, but not because I really want healing with your sisters. I have bad thoughts about them at the moment. It is as though I used up all of my good thoughts in the writing of the letters - remembering better times when we laughed together, touched each other with easy familiarity, hugged each other and really meant it. Was all of that so easy for them to give up?

Never the less, I will deliver these hand written pleas to them, asking for forgiveness for whatever sins it is that they believe I have committed. The detailing of insane behaviour committed under the influence of grief, put forward for their inspection will be consumed for it's face value no doubt, instead of for it's true meaning which is that of a mirror, hung before them showing a strange apparition that blends their image with mine in duplicitous hell. For that's where we are right now - in hell. Tormenting each other because we cannot heal our pain of loss. We rend our own flesh in the frenzied attempt to scratch an itch that cannot be reached. I despair.

If you receive these letters and have some godlike view the web we are caught in, see that our plight is but a moment in time made small by eternity, spy a path free from the entanglement we have devised for ourselves - come to me in a dream that I may see it too. For now, I truly am blind to it and fear that we do not have the wisdom to find our way free.

Yours,

P.