#wr deirdre letter

[mor-beck-more-problems]

@deathduty

[ a letter is left for Morgan under her breakfast plate, having been set there overnight by pixies, who did arrange Morgan’s breakfast of gourmet brains into a phallic shape. There is a jar of eyeballs pickled in potent anise extract, and a bottle of zombie-approved wine. ]

My Morgue,

Happy anniversary. For the sake of full disclosure, I did have to cancel plans I had for us. But I don’t mind, and anyway, I don’t think Kaden would have appreciated being pushed down the stairs again for my anniversary present to you. I love you very much. I love you very much always. The day is already special. I love you. 

Oh, those French scientists I hired managed to get that god-awful licorice thing to make a strong enough flavor. Progress was slow because they “had ethical concerns about the source of the eyeballs” and “wanted health benefits” and “would like to see their families again”. Maybe I ought to push them all down the stairs. 

Still love you very much

Yours, Deirdre

[ a picture is attached to the letter, with its own note: ]

This is a picture I took of you last week. I think the photography class has been working. At least, it’s not another blurry photo of the floor. Shall we put it into your album together?

[mor-beck-more-problems]

[For old times sake, the present is delivered to Morgan by way of Urk on the 14th, whose tears have merged into his sweat, creating a moist canvas of skin. The box, carved of bone, contains an ornate knife sitting in black velvet. The hilt of the knife brandishes white branching swirls of bone and gold, bearing the symbol of the deer. The blade is stubbornly free of iron, and just as sharp as a good blade ought to be. The sheath also carries a gold carved image of a deer. Urk trips on a rock.] 

My Morgue,

I had this made for you when I went to Ireland, months ago. Do you remember that? I came home bruised and you held me and loved me so tenderly that I couldn’t believe it. You promised that you loved me, and the day after I thought I should have given this to you right then. But I felt it too serious a gesture, too forward. I had this made for you in a place that doesn’t know love. This, symbol of family, for you. And if there were a time for serious, forward gestures, it wasn’t the months that followed. 

But we have come so far, with so much work. And though the last thing I want to do is present you with something too heavy, the truth is the feelings that had this made for you have not changed, aside from growing stronger, fonder. If this is too much for you, you’ll have to tell me. 

In my family, every member is made their own knife—decorated to celebrate them. It is our symbol of duty, honor, sacrifice and tradition. The knife has been the enduring symbol of our family—steadfast metal, crushed into shape, sharpened into weapon. (I can tell you more about this in person, and isn’t that a marvel? To be able to speak like this to each other out loud.) But to you, for you, it only means that you are my family. I have never known love before you, and whatever the tide of Fate brings, you will always be my family. You were the first person to tell me that I mattered, you are the only person to convince me of it. No matter what, I will always be thankful for that. You have changed my life for the better, you have been in my life, and you have become part of its story. 

But I would much rather be in yours too. Together. 

A year ago I gave you a letter I was so excited to write, I had it ready and sent off days before. Perhaps it’s a little insulting to know this letter is being written the day before, though no less excited. It is also perhaps unsurprising to you that I have liked you for a long time. A year ago, I wrote to you a little excited and anxious, and when the reality of my affection for you came to me—I took it all back. Those words; I pretended as if they’d meant nothing. This year, there is nothing to take back or hide. And in that sense, it wouldn’t be fair to keep this from you any longer. I have it, and it was made for you, and it’s yours now. And a year ago I was worried that a mug might be too forward. 

If you’re free, and though I know you don’t drink coffee anymore, perhaps we might indulge ourselves in the social institution of it….and have ourselves that date we couldn’t that day. Porches optional. 

Your loving girlfriend, Deirdre 

P.S  I love you P.P.S  You know, why is it you say Valentine’s is dumb and made-up but all holidays are made-up, and nothing you like is dumb. And, you know what? At least this holiday gives me an excuse to try and be more corny than you.  P.P.P.S  I love you P.P.P.P.S  And as it turns out, I still want to talk to you just a second longer.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

@deathduty

[As Morgan and Deirdre pull up to their house—home from Paris on the 27th—the path to their backyard has been paved, and decorated fresh with flowers. Silently, Deirdre leads them along and into the backyard, with newly paved stone paths of its own. There is one that flows into the patio, and another that comes from the shed and the place Morgan had chosen for her soon-to-be-built studio. They are not connected, not yet. Where the unfinished paths would meet, sits bags of gravel, cement, stone, wood, a box of tools, and a bright yellow generator. Deirdre hands Morgan a letter, before wishing her a happy birthday and saying she’ll take their suitcases inside for them.] 

Morgue, 

If you remember, our first letters carried a silly story about crops and children. When I made the joke, what I was searching for was an excuse to speak to you, even if it was about a fictional farm. The presents were much the same, they gave me a reason to be writing to you and a way to avoid how I felt. But the story morphed into a metaphor, and we began to speak through it before we could speak freely without. There must be dozens of letters I drafted to you, with so many things to say and so much fear about how to say them. I loved you quietly then; in letters I learned to say what my lips could not. I loved you in metaphor, in stories and post-scripts. I loved you with ink. I loved you with gifts and flowers. And when I found the words, I loved you in all these ways and more. 

Loving you has always been a journey of freedom, Morgan; freedom of words, freedom from falsehood. When I say I am happy now, I am happy. When I write, I don’t carry fear. Reality exists here now, there are no more crops and children. What I have to say is here now, with nothing to obscure it. So please, believe me when I say I am happy, beyond measure, that we possess within our relationship the ability to be free; to speak our minds, to grow, to search for truth. I am happy, without equal, to be able to help you in your journey. We haven’t had the easiest time, I know, but I will always be happy that you are honest with me, as much as you can be. That you could say space was what you needed. No matter what, this happiness of mine is true. No matter what becomes of us, I wish it to be a path of honesty. Perhaps I had forgotten that for some time, but I loved you first in our ease of communication. And I will love you always there, even if it becomes difficult, in the place where we speak. 

And even if I don’t understand, I will try. Space ought not to be severed from the world, hidden in the darkness of our backyard. I’ve gotten people to start on some paving, so that your space is still a part of the life around you. So that it is yours, and it is respected. The generator is so that your studio can run on its own, without the house, in case it ever needed to. And if these things sound terrible to you: the paving is intentionally unfinished so that it may be reversed with ease (but also partly because the studio needs to be built first). You’ll find the receipt for the generator sitting on top, with a generous no-questions-asked ninety day return policy for you to consider. All you’d have to do is say so. In the place where we speak, where your words have always mattered.

And if the talking gets hard, there’s always the writing. And the truth: I love you and I am yours regardless of the difficulty or the space. I have always loved talking to you, I will always love it.

Happy Birthday, my love. 

Yours devotedly, Deirdre 

P.S. I used to sign my letters “D.D” because I was afraid someone would read them and know they came from me. I think I’m learning that fear makes an idiot of me. 

P.P.S How does it feel to be an old lady? 

[mor-beck-more-problems]

[ Gifted to Morgan on December 25th. The book, with a resin cast cover, is part photo-album, part scrapbook, filled with memorabilia of Morgan’s life. There are pictures of her as a child, cut from yearbooks and articles. An old pen, dried out, saved from a school that no longer exists. Printouts of Facebook pictures from old acquaintances in Texas. Copies of school documents, newspaper clippings, photographs where Morgan is only in the distance. But she is there, she exists. There are pictures of her from college, old notes, the ribbon from her craft fair win, a staff photo. Therein lies evidence of Morgan’s life; past, present. The rest of the pages are blank, but Deirdre has taped in supplies: glue, scissors, string, pens. The first picture in the book is of Morgan as a child, from the bookstore, holding her Best Reader award. Then there is a space for two more photos, though they are empty. Under that is a letter. ]

. My Morgue, This letter and its gift have gone through several iterations. It finds you now, written on the eve of Christmas, slightly tipsy on your Yule celebratory beverages. I started this project after our trip to Texas, seeing both your sadness at the life taken from you and your happiness of the pieces you could share. And that photo you found, and how special it was. I spent some time compiling and finding everything that I could of you. Some people were more than happy to part with their yearbooks, others strangely enthusiastic to share with me old memories of their lives–and you, in them. For so long you have thought your life erased, but to me, you have always been whole. You have always been here, you have always been you. We cannot bring back every relic; every book and photo lost. But I have always known you were a complete person, whole and beautiful, and I know the world knows it too. The sun wouldn’t line your skin with brilliance, the earth wouldn’t hold you and the wind wouldn’t catch your hair if it didn’t know you. You have walked its ground, touched its flowers, lived its life–and the you it shows is beautiful, more than any stranger could craft. Perhaps there is no such thing as someone who has not lived, was not loved, remembered. The evidence is here, and there’s more that I did not have the time to find. And more that you will create. I look forward to a world where this isn’t the only book of you. We could fill a library with your life. I think I’d like to see it happen. I think it ought to. You are more than what you think you are. You have existed. You have loved. You have lost, and you have gained. You are a part of this world. You are whole. And I love you; endlessly, completely. Yours always,
 Deirdre. P.S. Karen sends her regards (I maintain that I’m still cuter than her) .

[Two polaroids flop out of the letter. One of Morgan and Karen in dark, colourful sunglasses, making faces at the camera. Another of them laughing by Karen’s swimming pool. On a small note is an email address and a screenshot of the message Karen exchanged with Deirdre: “give morgan my email and tell her i say hi. and happy yule, or whatever it’s called.” Deirdre has written her own comment beside it: “I’d push her down the stairs, personally.”]

[mor-beck-more-problems]

[Left covered with a white sheet on their dinning room table. A note is laid under one of the arms; the handwriting is childish and done in a glittery red crayon.]

DEAR MORGSHROOM,

Your hair looks like a mushroom. Sometimes, if you curl up, you also look like a mushroom. Mushrooms are hot. 

I am sorry I’m so shroomy and too sexy for you. I am sorry you want the “other” Deirdre back even though she’s boring and annoying and I’m sorry you’re stuck with me, who is really fun. I love you very much, even if you don’t like me. 

I made this for you. His expression is how I feel. But if you turn him upside down, it’s almost like a smile. Also he has arms. Also he’s a pot. Also I lost a shoe on the way home today. 

I like you the most, even when you’re hating on mushrooms. And even when I know you don’t like me as much. I know you’re sad (like the sad pot man) but maybe the sad pot man can make you less sad. I’ve seen you going through our old letters. So I wanted to give you a new one. I know you don’t like me, but maybe you’ll miss me when I’m gone too. Just like you miss her. 

You don’t have to love me, or like me. Or even talk to me or stay with me…but I’m happy that you do. Sometimes I like you more than the mushrooms. But I will always care about you more than them. So, maybe you won’t go inside a ring with me, and I know I don’t always say the things you want to hear, or act the way you expect me to act. But you’ll always have sad pot man, and he can’t do anything that will make you sad. 

YOURS FOREVER & MUSHROOMINGLY, Deirdre

[the back of the letter showcases a crude drawing of Morgan and a mushroom]

[mor-beck-more-problems]

[When Deirdre arrives home, she presents a bouquet of brains lovingly made to look like roses (though she’s no artist) and points to a letter she’s stuffed between the stems, underneath that is a bite guard designed for zombies. The letter reads as follows, in her free-flowing script:] 

@deathduty

My Morgue,

For long I have felt myself drawn to you. Perhaps through imagination, or some manner of magic–though the method doesn’t matter. I had felt myself pulled to you in a whisper of a feeling, there only because some part of my body willed it. It was summoned forth as something of my own choosing; that I would want you on my own, of my own volition. Your skin was warm, like fire the first times we would touch and I had never gotten used to imagining that you wouldn’t burn me. And these were feelings that I loved, but there is a capacity to love more, love something different. You don’t feel the same, but the similarity or its comparison doesn’t matter. Will you let me describe to you how you feel then?

A feeling once stirred to life by my hand is now woven into my skin. It takes root until it’s anchored and I am a river captained by your current. There is no whisper about the way I am drawn to you now. This feeling is mine, and it is clear. Perhaps death can take, but with the same breath it draws me to you–and with the sense of you awash over my flesh, even the darkest of mazes has its path illuminated. In the thickest fog, the longest stretch of winding forest, I could find you. And you feel, for once with true clarity, like the brightest star in the murkiest night sky. Your skin is no more colder than mine, and so I do not feel a burn or a chill–only you. It is different. It is not a bad difference. I feel you and you alone. And you, my love, feel like how water pours from a fountain, rippling at once with great force and inexplicable gentleness. And if you were a garden, then watching you would be like the blossoming of each flower–its cycle of rebirth and death uninterrupted as your ebb and flow of decay and feeding. And each part, as beautiful, as important as the others. The lushest garden, there only to those who know how to look.

And if you struggle to find it, listen for me as I explain the roads and corners. I can lead you through one passage into another. And you’ll know, just as I do, that you feel like exactly where I wish to be. I love you now, just as I did then–and all feelings, all parts of you, loved equally. Would you believe me if I told you that you’ve always been beautiful to me? Or is that too corny? 

Yours, Deirdre.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

[Left on their bed, on the 14th of June, is a letter folded in three parts. The above face reads in messily scrawled words: “P.S just gone to a meeting. will be back later.” The letter itself is fluid, with words that curl into the next, and splotches of ink in the places Deirdre paused.]

My Morgue, 

It’s the morning of the 14th. You’re in the shower, which gives me roughly 20 minutes to write this. Naturally, nothing is more tempting right now than knocking and asking if you’d like company. But I owe you a letter, even if 20 minutes is hardly enough time to begin to scratch the surface of what I feel. Thankfully, I’ve been drafting these words in my head for weeks. 

I don’t always know why I love you either. 

To me, it is the simplest question. How could I not love you? Have you heard yourself speak before; the understanding and care with which you approach all topics? Have you seen yourself as the blazing sunset catches the ends of your hair, how it illuminates you as if the world loves you too? Have you stopped and watched your actions? That way you reach for all things, the way you hold them to your chest? Have you heard the rise to your voice? Have you seen the way your eyes grow when surprised? Do you know what you sound like when you laugh? And not just the shrieks, but the quiet ones, or the exhales of breath, or the pittering giggles? It seems so obvious then, that I would love you, for who wouldn’t? 

And yet, those are not the only reasons why I love you. I can remember the first time we met, I can remember the surprise with which you took me by, I can recall my disappointment having already decided that this human unlike any other would be one that I could not know. I can remember imagining the pain, even then, how devastating it would be to never know you. So why then? Why you? It would be easy now to say your impending death drew me to you, it would be easy to say now that your current death continues to draw me to you. It would be easier if I said it was your kind heart, unparallelled to any other. Or your brightness, your optimism and hope and your willingness to fight, even now. But this would be a disservice. It is not easy to say why I love you; I wish there was an easy answer you could hold on to. Something so simple and obvious that it would sit unquestioned in your heart. But it is not for one thing that I love you. It is not even for a combination of several. It is something too profound for words, too magical to be tapered down into language. 

I love you because you are you. I wanted to give you the world because you had so little of it. I wanted to care for you because you deserve to be cared for. I love you because you see things that so many have forgotten. I love you because you are unlike anyone else. I love your patience, I love the way you continued to seek affection even when it was denied to you. I love your strength. I love how you curl up beside me. I love how you continue to give even when you think you have nothing. I love how astute you are. I love you because you saw in me what no one else would. I love hearing you talk. I love the way you tell stories. I love you because you never stop trying to bring understanding to everyone and everything around you. I love you because you are reckless. I love you because you exist, and you try. I love you because you make me worry. I love you because you’ve known too much pain not to be loved. I love you because you have not forsaken a world that gave you every reason to, and yet, I would love you even if you did. I love you because your heart is precious, because it cries for those that cannot. I love the way you smile after Moira plops down for the twelfth nap. I love you because you smile at Moira after she plops down for her twelfth nap. I love that she naps with you. I love you because you let her. There will never be enough paper or ink in this world for me to explain this.

The truth is that I love you more than that, more than these reasons, more than I know how to say, more than I can say, more than I even understand how to. My heart aches to say more, but my mind struggles with what it is to say. It is full, and overflowing, and more than a set of examples and features. And I am sorry, my love, that it cannot be one simple thing. But I feel comforted knowing that I love you more than that. I hope you’ll feel it too, that no matter how you change or grow, I’ll love you. How can I say I love you for your eyes if their color might change one day, and if I know that I would love them all the same if they were any other shade? How can I say that I loved you for your magic, if I love you just like this? And everyday my love grows wiser, stronger, and it finds new things to love, new places to lay itself, and new words to explain something so strange.

You may ask me this question whenever it plagues you. I can give you a new answer every time, and I can give you as many answers as you want. There is no shortage of love for you, and no one thing I need to worry about repeating myself over. In that way, maybe it’s better that this thing is too complex for the simplicity of words. It will not end on you one day, Morgan, it will not change as you do. It remains ever constant, ever growing. 

I learned to care again by thinking about you; about how I wished the world would treat you, and how I ached to give that kindness to you. I know that I see you beautifully, and I know that we color our visions of ourselves unkindly. You taught me this. I love you, and now I believe in parts of myself that I shunned. I love you and I want to be good, better. How do I explain that? If the words would ever dare come to me. I love you unfathomably. I love you profoundly. I love you clumsily and concise. I love you like the calm tide and the roaring rain. I love you like dirt falls into a grave. I love you like insects take a corpse. I love you like how a flower blooms and withers. I love you infinitely. I love you inexpressibly. I love you bursting to share. 

Even your darkest dark is not a weight to bear, and were it so, I’d bear it gladly. But it is not. Not to me. I don’t always know why I love you in all the ways I do. It’s still a language I’m learning; something we craft together. But I will not stop trying to explain. I love you because you let me. I love you because I want to, and it is both a choice and not one at all. 

I love you because I want to know you. And then I love you because I do.

Yours, Deirdre

[On the back of the letter is another messy note, upside down, either the scrapped beginning of the letter or a hastily added after-thought. It reads:]

When we were getting to know each other, I was overwhelmed with this sense of wanting to give you everything. I wished my words could be more than words, that my hands could soothe or that the right amount of pressure could take the rest of your troubles away. I’ve never wanted any one to be happy as badly as I do you. I’ve never cared for anyone like I do you. I may not know much about love, and I may explain it poorly, but I know there is no one more deserving of love than you. I have not stopped wanting to give you everything. I still wish my love alone was enough to make everything okay; better. But it’s just love. And these are just words. 

They are all I have. Will you love me for my foibles? I want to be good. 

[the rest is crossed out, illegible]

Morgan finds the letter after coming out of the bathroom. She reads it and cries because she is loved. Then she cries because Deirdre is the one who loves her. Then she cries because after a week of fairy ring high, Deirdre is finally here to tell her so in a way that reaches down into the best of her and strikes true.

[mor-beck-more-problems]

[The letter Deirdre hands Morgan in the woods. The writing is fluid, as if written seemingly in one stroke.] 

Morgan, 

 As a child, I lacked the language to explain friendship. I had never had a friend, except for Sophie. In the end I simply referred to her as “my Sophie”, because that was who she was. Nothing else seemed to matter; how I had just the one friend, how she very clearly never gave back any pencils I lent her, nor that she was human. The feeling was simple, pure, something that was mine just as much as it was hers. So, then, what is it about liking someone that the shell of them is forgotten?  

 In its stead, the essence, the spirit and the soul, become all that can be seen. Words like “human” become irrelevant. You are simply you. And I cannot describe with words how I’ve ached to be with you. I confess now that I have tried to stop, and that itself feels like a crime. To have desired to stamp out such a pure feeling is something I can’t apologize for enough. You might be happy to know then, that despite my best efforts, my feelings for you have never wavered.  

 If it’s true; if there’s a world to be had and something to share, I’d like to see it. Where the water laps hopelessly at the warm sand and it is both night and day. With you, that place is tangible. It is inviting, accepting. A whole world of our own, if only we’d take it.  I wish it truly was as simple as saying I want to to be yours, if you’ll be mine. I wish the tide would carry with it my heart each time it rolled in. I wish I could say, simply, that I’ve never known happiness could exist in this way. Yet, not only does the world demand complexity, but language always fails to explain that which is brighter than bright.  

 If we could be in our world though, there are an incalculable number of things I could say. First, perhaps, that I have never met anyone like you. Then maybe how I adore every part of you. Should I say something about how tireless this expression is? How even if language fails, I will explain it, again and again and again, in different ways or even in the same ones. In our world, there is a simplicity. And I could say, without fear, that what I want is you.  You said you had so little to give that could be placed in my hands, but I find myself un-wanting of anything besides you. If you could place your hands in mine, it’d be worth a lifetime of gifts. And being able to hold you has already been worth that and more. If reality has to shatter our world, each moment would not lose value—every second just as special as it was then. In the end, some things are worth the risk, aren’t they?  

 I don’t think it’s too much. It feels like not enough.  

 Yours, Deirdre 

 P.S. Naturally, I’m not a child anymore, or else this might be terribly awkward. I know there are words for things now, I know what those words are. Would “girlfriend” be okay?

[mor-beck-more-problems]

[ delivered at the door on the morning of the 14th by a sweaty college student, having been promised into giving the present a few days earlier. The box contains a mug, a box of chocolates, the four volume first edition set of Northanger Abbey & Persuasion, a pound of salt, a rod of cold iron, a single silver bullet, a wooden stake, some stationary, ink, a fountain pen, and a handwritten letter in elegant script. ]

Morgan,

I hope this letter and its accompanying gifts find you well. I’m aware it’s quite the assortment of gifts but you’ll have to forgive me for being eager to share things with you—and repay a certain gift you’ve given me. The children are well, the crops have suddenly turned into large bears and are eating the children. Oh? Did I say they were well? I meant well dead. On a less joking note, if you find yourself free today, I think there’s a woman that’d like to get coffee. You have her phone number. 

For being such a good sport, why don’t I share a piece of original poetry? “Roses are red, Asphyxiated faces are blue, I want bones Moo.” That was me at age six, the artistry is how I managed to spell asphyxiated. 

For honesty’s sake, I should say I’m writing this a few days early, and also pre-sending it. Don’t laugh. Happy Valentine’s.

D.D.

P.S. I really wasn’t sure what do get you. I figured the best I could do was keep you safe. The salt is for the ghosts you’re trying to summon, the iron for any fae that gives you trouble (it works on ghosts too), the silver for werewolf (gun not included), the stake for a vampire (it goes through the heart). A boundary of salt or cold iron will keep a ghost out. Don’t do anything stupid. P.P.S There are some horny ghosts about, be careful.  P.P.P.S. The stationary and ink is just so you can write me back.  P.P.P.P.S I just wanted this to be even.  P.P.P.P.P.S. Okay, I lied. I just wanted to talk to you for a second longer. 

Morgan gives the delivery boy a dollar and waits until he leaves before examining the contents. She reads the letter. Reads it again. Reads it again. 

[mor-beck-more-problems]

[left on the counter is a small wicker basket, with a large sign that reads “FOR MORGAN, UNLESS THERE’S SOMEONE ELSE IN THIS HOUSE NAMED MORGAN. THEN IT’S FOR MORGAN BECK.” inside is some pomegranates and a letter]

My Morgue,

I never answered your question but I’m fond of pomegranates. They crack open like a skull; the red juice helps the morbid imagery. It’s an odd thing to ask about, but I thought the seedy fruit would be fitting for Ostara anyway.

You did also ask me for a story about the stars. Maybe that story starts first with something my great-great-grandmother told me. She insisted that if you cared about someone, you’d explain the world to them as you see it. This is why the bones are important. To show that in the part of life we find most beautiful, that we are connected with, we have thought of someone and that we wish to share that beauty with them—that we wish to share a world with them.

Or maybe it’s about the first telescope I ever bought. I was twelve and used the money I’d gathered together from selling bits of cheese I was supposed to be making for the family. It’s harder to sell cheese than it sounds. Thankfully, I was an adorable child. The telescope was terrible, dull and loose, but it was mine. Just the same way the stars were and the lake. I could continue to spend my nights dipping my feet in that cold water and straining to see the little flickers of stars above with my eyes. Or I could use this telescope, and if I could see them better, it made me feel like everything else could be clearer too.

It’s possible the stars could have something to do with how my mother found me sneaking out once. I’d never seen her mad before, not at me at least. The shadows made her features sharper and she took my telescope, snapping the cheap plastic easily in her calloused hands. She said that stars were nothing to stare at, that everything that was worth looking at was right here. I’d waste my time staring up. I’d hurt my back and strain my neck and I’d leave no wiser, no more appreciative of the things I had. The humans look at the sky because they can’t understand the world below. But not us, we understood.

Since then, I’ve thought of nothing in particular when I’ve looked at them. She was right, in a way, everything that mattered wasn’t up above.

But I’d like to think a story about the stars would say that no matter what comes to this world, there will always be that other one hanging above us. There’s a cycle there that’s easy to get lost in and none of us are significant in the end–no problem is too large, too insurmountable. Each moment is made more precious because of this. There are so many things that we cannot touch; even the stars and their space. Doesn’t it make what can be reached all the more valuable? In the face of an endless, unknown expanse, of which we can only see flickers, does it not mean that sharing what you do know is more important? Does it not give more certainty to what you have?

This story ends with my mother being wrong more ways than she was right. It has nothing to do with the stars at all.

Nothing lasts, to understand that is to know beauty in all its stages: life, death, decay and first bloom. My death might be what you think of the stars. I hope that gives it more context. I want to share that world with you…but I know the night sky makes for a happy medium.

I’ll be on the roof, if you’d like to show me what you see. Maybe I can offer you a story that’s actually about those adorable balls of gas up there.

Love, D.D

[mor-beck-more-problems]

[left on the counter for Morgan to find on Sunday morning, as Deirdre slips out for the night. Inside the gift bag is a packet of gum, a collection of Emily Dickinson’s poems and a small satchel filled with tea. The book, old and worn, has the petals of a pressed red carnation sticking out–marking the poem “Hope” is the thing with feathers. There is a letter, sealed with her family’s crest into red wax. The writing is in her same elegant and careful scrawl, though near the end it twists into something messier; free]

My Morgue,

I suppose something about bears and children and crops are in order but sometime between this letter and the last my narrative seems to have shifted considerably. As it turns out, the children are fine. Oh no. I spoke to soon. The children have morphed into iguanas and have run off in search of you. The crops are still bears but they nap comfortably under this almost-spring sun. 

In the end, some gum is both the cheapest and smallest thing I can buy, as a present. You have my thanks for allowing me to learn the art of gift-giving on you, though I suspect this is a clever ploy for more of my letters (of which can only be accompanied by a gift). Some gum didn’t seem fair, and you gave me a book of poetry once so I offer you one that accompanied many nights for me. There’s also some tea there, my grandmother fancies herself a herbalist. The tea tastes good, despite her posturing. 

I think I owe you a story, or a few. It’s hard to tell what I owe from what I want to give, and what I would, willingly and free. There could be a world here, of our own making. Maybe then I’d have more to give.

For now, gum. 

Yours, D.D

P.S. With you, it’s easy to forget what is owed; to life, to death. Will you tell me if this a bad thing or a good one? P.P.S. I hope the spring will be good to your crops. And all the seasons there after.