Dear Grandfather, December 6
The seasons have fallen upon Winter once again and I find myself within your old estate. I am not sure exactly why I am writing you, for I never had the pleasure of meeting you in life. I guess the comfort in speaking with someone who will not ridicule me for whatever I say inspired me to do so. Or perhaps I feel I should know you and have the obligation to converse with you.
In the Spring, I will, as my parents say, ‘finally be of age.’ Which means essentially that the lights of my childhood will have burned down to the very ends of their wicks and the little oil left shall not be merciful enough to lend more time. With the discussion of my upcoming birthday just this past Saturday, Mother slipped from her lips with grace the words of which I was in no hurry to hear. She took my hands in hers and said, “Mabel, dear, you have grown into such an amiable young woman of which any man would be lucky to have. In fact, your father and I have gone to great lengths and you are to be married in the months passing your twentieth!” A hint of excitement swelled within the ending syllables of Mother’s voice and I had no will to share it.
Thankfully, Grandmother caught wind of my parents’ storm which weighed responsibilities and mannerisms against me amidst the past weeks in order to shake me from the roots I had remained buried for so long. She arranged for me to stay with her the entirety of the colder months and learn what I needed before the inevitable daunting breath of Spring.
So, here I am. My hand scribbling to you this letter within the journal I was gifted by Grandmother in arriving here. I sit along the wooden table you used your very hands to shape, sheltered by the walls which you once graced with your presence. I hope you will have me.