I think, if you are still alive and (it may be) lonely, that my news will bring you happiness, although the end of it is sadness, like so much of life. Of your child – our child – I do not say anything, because you did not wish to accept her. But that child had, in her turn, a daughter, and I do not think that I have seen so sweet a girl in all my days. I thank you for giving me (although you did not choose to) that light and goodness in my last years. She wanted to be a lamp in your winter, too, because I Often spoke about you and the long-gone summer that we had together, which was, to me at least, so wonderful. I told her nothing of the end of that time, that you and some there thought to be shameful. I told her only things that came sweetly from my mouth.
And she used to say, often, ‘I wish I knew that grandfather of mine. Gran, do you think he’s lonely? I wish I could make him a pot of tea and see to his fire. Some day I’m going to Scotland and I’m going to knock on his door, and I’ll do things for him. Did you love him very much, Gran? He must be a good person, that old sailor, because you loved him. I will see him. I’ll hear the old stories from his own mouth. Most of all, of course, the love story – because you, Gran, tell me nothing about that …’
I am writing this letter, Bill, to tell you that this can now never be. Our granddaughter Andrina died last week, suddenly, in the first days of spring …
I think, if you are still alive and (it may be) lonely, that my news will bring you happiness, although the end of it is sadness, like so much of life. Of your child – our child – I do not say anything, because you did not wish to accept her. But that child had, in her turn, a daughter, and I do not think that I have seen so sweet a girl in all my days. I thank you for giving me (although you did not choose to) that light and goodness in my last years. She wanted to be a lamp in your winter, too, because I Often spoke about you and the long-gone summer that we had together, which was, to me at least, so wonderful. I told her nothing of the end of that time, that you and some there thought to be shameful. I told her only things that came sweetly from my mouth. And she used to say, often, ‘I wish I knew that grandfather of mine. Gran, do you think he’s lonely? I wish I could make him a pot of tea and see to his fire. Some day I’m going to Scotland and I’m going to knock on his door, and I’ll do things for him. Did you love him very much, Gran? He must be a good person, that old sailor, because you loved him. I will see him. I’ll hear the old stories from his own mouth. Most of all, of course, the love story – because you, Gran, tell me nothing about that …’ I am writing this letter, Bill, to tell you that this can now never be. Our granddaughter Andrina died last week, suddenly, in the first days of spring …
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