Dear Amelia,
I write this account to you, knowing that it will never reach you. It has been one year to the day since your accident. Life without you has been brutal, as you were the one source of comfort I had left that I could talk to. My parents would never understand; they are too caught up in the ways of the older generation. To be quite frank, I'm sure my mother is growing a bit touchy in her old age; she seems to explode with rage at the slightest provocation. My three sisters and I are wary of her. My father, of course, takes her side in most every confrontation. I can no longer look to him for a defense. My sisters do not understand. Having never shared the doubts of being the last of their kind, as you and I have experienced, they would not comprehend the amount of pressure I feel to excel in all that I do.
The subtlest shift has caused the winds of change to blow. You would have known better than I; you were always better at reading the changes of the universe. In fact, were you among us now, I'm sure we could have figured this change out together. But I digress. Aaron is not yet four years old; nevertheless, he talks with a diction and manner strongly reminiscent of his godmother. You would be so proud of him. He is blessed with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, and the bitter, cold winter won't rob him of his inner fire. He asks for you sometimes, but his mother is loath to tell him the truth. She says that you have taken a vacation for a while, and she isn't sure when you will return.
And my work! How utterly, remarkably it has improved. The book you sent me at Christmas last has done wonders for my poetry and my life. My words take flight, leaving calm and peace in their wake. They evoke such strong feelings of passion and loss that I have even moved people to tears. And despite my own carefully crafted works, it wasn't until you came into my life that I was able to do it. Ariel, my dear, I owe a lifetime debt of gratitude to you.
I have spoken recently to the doctors. The real medical doctors. They aren't like me... not really. They say you are stable. I wish I were with you, but I know that even now, you would not wish that on your worst enemy, let alone your best friend since childhood. Sometimes, I wish we were back in that time when life had been an innocent game and we, inseparable from one another. But now, look at us. I am a struggling poet, reflecting on the wider world when you struggle for your very life. Perhaps the true sentiments of the world are not felt until you have tasted the bitterness of life's losses. They say you may never come back to me, to us. But they don't know you as I do. Let them say what they will. I say they haven't seen the last of you.
Once again, time makes a fool of us. I must meet my family, as we discuss our next great excursion. I hear 1975 is nice this time of year. Get well soon, Amelia. I'll be waiting.
Wishing you all the best,
The Doctor
