Kay Middleton

Shamus, dear boy, dear friend,

     You are, indeed, blessed with a gift of words and romance such as I have never encountered.  You declare you are not a poet but have such a poetic voice. Against my better judgment you inspire me to response. I also enjoyed our walks, the moments of truth and shared grief. How much it meant to me that you understood my loss like no other human being has, I am wont to express adequately.  I walk that same path everyday and cannot help but think of you as I do. The first day stands out most in my memory and I will not have to explain the reality to you, dear one.  

     Wild violets are blooming now along the creek and I can see where there will be Queen Anne’s Lace and Daisy in the summer.  Tomorrow I will dig some to plant outside my kitchen door among the herbs.  Father has started a small vegetable garden with the help of Gus who remains here to cook for the men who tend oxen and work in the mill. Already we have some produce from it, early peas and some greens. Once a week I take a cake or bread for Gus to repay his kindness. Father says he is Catholic but his works may yet earn him a place in heaven. I cannot understand a God who makes such seemingly random judgments but I am silent on these matters.

     My letters should be longer to justify the post but I find I hold myself back as surely you understand.  Along with my trepidation is my eagerness for your next correspondence.

Your dear friend, Lydia