Weeping Willows

Work to be Done

Chapter 22

After her dinner Elizabeth cleaned up packing up Ryan's things to return to him. She set the vase of fragrant flowers down on the coffee table plopping down on the couch with exhaustion. Staring vacantly at the roses she replayed her conversation with Ryan. She had to admit he was right, heck everyone that had given her advice were. She did feel like she was close to being consumed by her grief. Problem was she didn't know where to begin. She didn't feel ready to sit down and talk face to face with someone yet. She'd end up a blubbering mess. She also couldn't handle the looks of pity it would earn her every time they met. But what did that leave her? If only she could unburden herself anonymously somehow. Even if she could who would she unburden herself to? She could join an online group but that felt so impersonal and clinically cold. What she needed was a group for the grieving to pen pal. She would never meet the other person and letters seemed much more intimate. As she sat with her thoughts three words kept circling around, pen pal and letters.

Gasping in delight Elizabeth got to her feet nearly careening her knee with the table in her haste. She remembered as a little girl her class had done a group project one year. They adopted a naval vessel and all the kids in class wrote a pen pal letter to an officer who signed up for the program. She could pen pal William or at least act like she was. He was the perfect person to talk too. Naturally they would never meet, being around a hundred years a part, and while he would never answer her back at least she would feel like she was talking to a person. She technically would be. Another solider in fact, it didn't matter that he served in WWI. She was already reading his letters anyway. Since there were only a small stack in the box, she could space the time in between each one out and it would seem as if they were writing each other for comfort. This could work at least to get her started then when she felt like talking to someone face to face, she could set up some meetings with Mason at his church. She had a plan, and a damn brilliant one at that. Now all she needed was paper. She had several art tablets but no stationary.

Rounding the doorway for her room Elizabeth went to her supplies looking everywhere for something to use. She kept muttering paper, paper, paper under her breathe as she tore through everything looking. She had just laid her hands on her calligraphy set when the box of letters fell to the floor. Hurrying over to it she began picking up the mess warily eyeing the table it had been on. It didn't look tilted at a slant and all four feet where level on the floor. The box had been in the center so just how had it fallen. Shaking herself out of her musings Elizabeth gathered up the letters placing them in order once more. Taking the three she had read already she moved them to the bottom of the stack placing them gently back inside their container. Next, she gathered up all the loose stationary tapping the stack of papers into a neat pile. She went to place them back with the letters when she stopped and stared at her hands. Here she had been looking for exactly what she was now holding. How had she forgotten this was in there? Placing them back inside she took a sheet off of the top. Picking up her calligraphy set she made her way over to the room she had turned into a studio. It was the only other bedroom on the ground floor and the only other room to have an attached bathroom. The third bathroom was on the second floor, but it was a separate room unlike the two downstairs. She went over to her lighted drawing table and began to set her things out.

With everything at the ready and pen poised to write she stopped, feeling a bit stumped. Just how should she begin it? She didn't think jumping right in with her problems felt quite right. After all, if this had been written to someone who would read it, it just seemed like a rude thing to do. She could introduce herself first but that seemed a bit delusional, as if she really believed she was talking to him. Honestly even though this had been perfect at first, she still couldn't bring herself to get too personal quite yet, which was just absurd. She sat there pondering tossing up ideas while tapping the end of her pen on her chin. Elizabeth wanted to keep it vague to start until she felt she could open up. What to talk about though? It's not as if she knew this young man or anything about him really. Or did she? Thinking back to the letters she had read already she decided to start there. She would write it as if they were two people having a conversation and she was merely chatting with an old friend. Testing the idea, she found that she liked it. Elizabeth wondered if she should put a date to her letter as she had been taught to do in school. Shrugging her shoulders, she thought, it's not really important. Deciding not to put one felt like a little rebellion against her 6th grade teacher. Dipping her pen into the ink she began.

Dear William,

We have never met before, but I had recently come across your letters. I have to apologize; I did read the first three. While I am sorry that I invaded your privacy by doing so I am not sorry that I read them. I found your words moving and it made me feel for you and your family. In some ways I could relate to what you said to them. It brought back some memories for me too.

After reading your third letter the artist in me was intrigued and I just had to find the spring. Can I say though you could have been a bit more forthcoming with the details there? I thought I had gotten well and thoroughly lost for a bit. Also, it would have been nice to know just how long the walk would be. I thought I had followed the wrong creek. When I did find it however it was magical. It was everything I had imagined and more. And the view at night? It was like being transported to a whole other place. I couldn't capture it on paper due to not enough light, but I am very confident I can create a piece from memory. I plan to do just that with oils in the near future. Obviously, I do not have to tell you how amazing it is, but I had to gush.

I am going to be honest with you, I am writing you for ulterior reasons. I have had a bit of a bad few months and I haven't really wanted to deal with it. I am close to feeling like I will be consumed with it. I figured it might be easier talking to a stranger who can not talk back. Clearly with how vague I am being I find this so much easier. I would like to continue to write you though to hopefully work up my nerve. Maybe in feeling like I am offering you comfort as well; I will be able to become more candid.

In closing, I hope you are safe and well and that your family is too. I wish for a speedy return home.

Sincerely,

Elizabeth Foster

Elizabeth sat back in her chair admiring her first attempt. Looking through her make-shift studio she found an old hat box she had acquired at a garage sale once. It would work perfectly for putting her letters in so she can keep them separate. She didn't want to get them mixed in in case his letters were one of the things that eventually got donated. Also, it will keep anyone from finding her responses and thinking her a complete loon. Maybe she was. If it helped her feel better, she didn't really care. Taking her box and placing it into the bottom of her armoire she used for smocks she hoped no one would rummage through her things.

With her letter written and tucked away she decided to turn in for the night. Groaning she half dreaded the next day. It was her second-class tomorrow and while she was half looking forward to somethings, others such as the twin menace, was making her cringe to have to deal with again. Exactly how many things was she going to have to deal with anyway? Dragging her feet, she trudged off to bed, but a smile still ghosted across her face. The birthday she had been dreading for so long ended up being one of the best days she's had in a while. Even so she could use some magic, a miracle, or deity to help her tomorrow. With that last thought she fell into a restless sleep dreaming of elderly death matches.