Since my last letter, so much has happened.
Bella fell ill and had to be put in the sick room upstairs with Aunt Mae. I’m sorry my love–we lost her within that week. We think she went in peace.
Aunt Mae is still holding on. If this letter does reach you, she may be gone by the time it arrives. I can’t deny that it would relieve some pressure.
Little Mason just took his first steps last week. Although he’s never met his papa, I’m sure he misses you terribly. I tell him about you every day.
We worry about the river these days. It is our only source of water since the well was contaminated. The acid rain is, of course, undrinkable. We cannot take the risks that we used to. Our systems take so much longer to recover. I worry when Eli coughs.
The sea level finally rose above the barrier with the last tsunami. Wherever you are, I’m sure you felt the effects of it too. As you can imagine, we don’t have the man power to make it any higher, and anyway, it’s too late now. The flats are flooded, which looks almost beautiful from our little perch. We hope everyone down there evacuated, or managed to pull through somehow.
I worry for the children. The sun’s flares have made it impossible for them–or any of us–to go outside at the height of the day. They aren’t able to get sun as we did when we were young.
The cathedral finally crumbled and fell. The bell made an awful sound. We knew it was coming, but it still hurt. Looking out at the flats and not seeing the spire is just another reminder of the end of all we know.
It’s been so hard not hearing from you. I can only pray that you are receiving my letters. I wish there were a way for you to write back.
Marcus is fine. Jaime still has not returned.
As for me, I’m just doing my best to hold on for as long as possible. I get weaker every day.
Although Mason is walking now, I’ve decided to continue breastfeeding him for as long as I can. The food we manage to gather daily wouldn’t be enough for all of us. Since we lost Bella, the pressure has eased of course, but I fear putting Mason onto solid food would make me complacent, and we are all only getting hungrier. Still, I fear sometimes that I don’t eat enough to produce consistent milk for him. On some days, my bosom is dry.
Ally’s piano lessons continue to brighten my day, although my hands are growing too tired to teach her. We had to use one of the manuscripts as kindling, and I only wish I had played the song one more time before we lost it. The piano, like everything else, is slowly falling apart. We will play it, as promised, until we no longer can.
I hope you’re okay, my love. I hope you’re alive. I hope you find Gordon soon. We all miss him just as much as we miss you.
I know you don’t like when I say this, and I hesitate to write it even now. But I often wish you hadn’t decided to go searching for him. Our days are numbered, and I just wish I could spend these last ones with you.
Each time our cooling system breaks down, it becomes more difficult to fix. And with the flares, you know we can’t survive for long without it.
The last hurricane took out the few fruit-bearing trees that could withstand the heat.
It would be a great help to have you here hunting. Although I fear the animals aren’t doing much better than we are.
I miss you, my darling. I will write again when I can bear it. I hope you still watch the river as you promised you would. I wonder how many of my letters you’ve missed. I continue to pray that I will see you soon.
things that matter: climate change