This begins a series posts from a work in progress: The Forty-Nine, an upcoming novel in letters. Excerpts of each letter will be posted in sequence. To browse them in order from the beginning, jump to Letter #1. In the lower right of each post, you can then advance to the next.
My Dear Sweet Em —
The most amazing day today, and I never would have thought it possible, seeing that Miguel is dead. You are likely unaware of that, although you follow the trace of death well and with grace. You’re the only one I know without wifi, you in your room in Amherst, the only person to whom I still write paper letters. With the ink and paper and stamp… it’s like creating a miniature work of art. A wax seal… divine. What is the difference between wax and waxen? between an oak table and an oaken table, or a gold ring and a golden ring? It’s all in the mythology and the magicality that lies dormant in language. Letters are a lovely routine and I am happy to have letters (and encounters) with you, although unhappy with myself for being such a rat of a friend. While I love letters, I’m not that constant.
You’re likely catching a fiery tone here in the wake of death. It’s catching me off guard. Miguel’s death was unexpected so I did not know what to expect, but I would have thought tears and torture. I guess it takes certain people longer. I know you understand. Remember when you visited last spring, just as the Pandemic began to rage and we ventured out on the reservoir in that small pink boat?
