My dearest,

There is a tree where the dead are buried. Do you know it? Up the land slopes, and there it is. A lone guardian standing sacred vigil. Dark limbs creep towards the sky like cracks in the air itself. Sometimes dew droplets hang, and the branches shiver in the cold.

It is beautiful. Have you seen it? I go there often.

Winter mist draws its shroud. Sunlight sits there. The golden light of morning reaches through each coil, and it is all so beautiful.

I go there with each mourning.

The village is buried in bracken now. Stone houses worn away by time are clothed now in a blanket of dirt. Ghosts haunt it still. 

But you know this.

You haunt me. Do you know this?

No matter. It is not important.

Have I mentioned the plants? They delight. Great bunches, each quavering head held so high. Yearning for the spring. They ache with longing. Can you imagine them? Pink blossom balanced on lichen twigs, so delicate. Just a breeze will send it all into tumbling air. A perfect blizzard — ascension. Can you see it? As it falls, falls, falls. Scatters on the ground.

You used to like the spring — your garden. Do you still?

I will take you there one day. I will take you to the tree where the dead are buried, to the village with the ghosts, to the flowers so pale and crimson. I will take you there, and you will see.

It is beautiful.

You are beautiful. Do you know this yet?

You are beautiful.

You, and your enchanted honey eyes, and your vermillion shawl, and the crepuscular rays of your smile. You and your laugh and your essence and your joy and your calm and your radiant spirit, so sweet and supple and there.

But this is not you. One mere facet only.

This is not you.

Tear it up, start again.

Ever yours,

E.

⸻

My dear,

You haunt me. Have I said so? Everywhere I go, you are there. Starlit raindrops on glass. Ripples in a pond. Murmurs — of you. Us.

Do you see them too?

No matter. It is not important.

I bury the echoes. Make my pilgrimage to the tree — have I mentioned the tree? — where the soil is laid bare for me. Dig. Leave the hollow shape ensconced in earth. I have lost count now how many are buried. A few. Shapeless, shapeless you.

Would you grieve me as I grieve you?

No. You are not the sort.

Are you?

You always were so sensible — but I do not know. This is just another ghost. Another notion wavering in the wind.

And still you come back to me.

These funeral seasons... In time, those winds will blow through once more. But that is not now. No — now is only you.

It is pleasant there. The mist and the sun — such splendour! And the hills flowing down to the fen. We went there once. Do you remember? We ate apples, and sandwiches with apricot jam. And the light shone through your hair, all the long coils of it. And we talked. Oh, how we talked! Of birds and barges and bards. Of cranes so lithe, so elegant. Of the stars themselves, swirling ephemera. Do you remember now? Your voice was honey and wine, and it bubbled with the creek and the summer.

But we were silent too. To sit there with you... Just us and the grass and the sky and the clouds. No sound, save for the wind rustle, the splash of the stream. You were so there. A lantern untethered in the wind, your light so radiant. How could I not be anchored to you?

I thank you for being. For your presence gracing the world.

You asked me if I loved you. What could I say? Did you believe me then? Would you believe me now?

Yours once more,

E.

P.S. — You will never guess what I found! Tucked into a drawer, a photograph of you — there for all these years! You shimmer in the light. Did you ever know? I wish you could.

⸻

My,

How long has it been? A time — too long. You did not hear from me. I almost forgot, and I apologise.

But no matter. I am here now.

You are here too.

I see you still. In the corner of my eye. In the dusky autumn twilight. Grey shadows creep, and you are there. But I look and you are gone.

Ghostly apparitions. Such strange visitation! What cause is there? Remnants strewn still: your pictures on the walls; your books; your furniture. They were never yours, but you loved them. I can see you sitting in the chair, hear the crinkle as you turn each page. Did you ever read them? You liked to read, did you not? And to garden — you always loved plants. Is this true?

No matter. It is not important.

But I can tell you now. Will you know? If I call your name, will you hear? 

It does not matter. I will tell it, and you will hear, or you will not.

I love you. Do you hear me? I love you I love you I love you. 

But you know this.

I loved you and I want you. Here. Now. To stand by you, to be taken into your arms, to be with you. Just for a time. Before you return to the wind once more.

I remember. You wrapped in your jersey, face turned to the sun. A smile caught in the webs of your face. Such joy was there. And now...

You will never read this. You will never see. You are gone from me. Not from this world; oh, no — not from this world. Just from me. Still you wander. I wonder — what do you think now? What do you see? Do you remember?

Never mind. It is not for me to know.

But I will build you again. Shape you. Your hands, your smile. Look at you. Hear you speak. Lace your fingers in mine. You will see, and I will see. For a night, we shall be together. As though you had never left.

Still it is not you.

Shred the image, tear it up, cast it into flame. You will grow and grow, and I will love and love, and I will go to my tree and my village of ghosts to bury you once more.

Until next time,

E.