Opening
October 17, 1871.
Today, I have woven a basket. It looks quite funny. I could never get it quite like yours, though I know that, had you seen it, you probably would have told me it looked “perfect” and kissed me, even though we both knew you were largely exaggerating.
I am writing this letter while sitting in the tall grass, much like the grass back home all those years ago, and it reminds me of you. I imagine how the warm, bright sun always shone upon your skin, and how your big, brown, doe-like eyes seemed to grow brighter in its rays. Like a summer goddess. Like you were made for the sunlight.
I’d do anything to go back to those moments and see that again, but I know I can’t. We both know we can’t. Yet hope constantly tugs at my heart, ripping it apart and leaving a great, gaping hole behind. A hole that you have created, and a hole that only you could ever fill. I still think about you, after all these years. Always and forever,
your Lottie.
