[ Letters ]
[ There's something to be said for the old-fashioned use of pen and paper and envelope and stamp, and Sappho's old-fashioned enough to love it. These arrive in the bearers' campus mailboxes a few days after she's left. ]
To Hemi:
My dear Hemingway,
I'm sorry to have left so precipitately. I did not give details of this to anyone at school but my faculty advisors, but I don't wish you to worry, so I will tell you the reason for my abrupt departure: my grandmother has come from Greece to stay with my parents- she's quite old and, if I'm to be entirely blunt, probably not long for this world. She requires some fairly constant care and assistance, which neither my mother nor father are in a position to give, and so I've come home for a bit to fill that role.
It's... trying. She misses Greece, of course. She's never lived anywhere else. I am trying to make what are probably her last few months comfortable ones, but it's difficult to effectively combat homesickness in an eighty-six year old woman. I do what I can.
How have you been faring? I hope you've been healing quickly and seamlessly, my friend, and that your doctors release you very soon, back into the wild where you belong. There are girls untamed, after all, and beer undrunk. Please keep me updated as to your progress?
My invitation to come and visit me is a standing one. Perhaps, if you have no plans for spring break, I can tempt you with the Oregon coast.
Best,
Sappheire
P.S. I think I recall aright in that you and Byron are friends? Please, if you know the address to which to send a letter, will you give me that information? I'd like to write to him, if it's not privileged information.
To Tom
My friend,
I'd like to apologise for giving such an impression of desperate haste when I left. I know I worried you, although characteristically, you didn't show it in the brief conversation we've had since. While the situation that's called me home is desperate, it is not truly an emergency... I have told you that my extended family resides in Greece? My grandmother has taken ill and, being quite, quite elderly, shall likely not entirely recover. My parents have brought her here to live with them, as my family in Greece are unable to adequately care for her, and as they are not in a position to give her the constant care she requires, I have come home to do so.
I imagine it will be only a matter of months.
She is quite homesick, I'm sorry to say, but she also knows it cannot be helped, and she is pleased that she may spend her dwindling time with her daughter and granddaughter, and the son-in-law she adores, as we are now her closest kin. I have quite an extended family in Greece, but they are more distant relations to her: neices and nephews and their children and cousins, etc. It was the more expedient choice to bring my grandmother here, rather than my parents and I to relocate to Greece for half a year.
For all that caring for her is work, it's pleasant work. I am close to her, and we talk a great deal. She is telling me the story of her life, in fits and bursts and anecdotes, and I've been writing it down before I go to sleep at night. Perhaps I shall publish her memoire, when she has gone. I shall ask her if she would mind, I think, but later.
I think you would enjoy her, and she you. I should like for you to meet one another. Would you consider coming to visit? I shall speak with my father, if you'd like, and I'm certain I can convince him to purchase your airfare. I confess you I am a bit lonely here. My grandmother is good company, to be sure, but she is largely my only company, as my parents are currently engaged in a significantly large construction contract in Seattle, and are absent from the house much of the time.
It would be good to have a third voice in conversation, and another presence in the house.
If nothing else, please do write often. Keep me apprised of the goings-on at Meridian and in Bartleby, and in your own life.
Best,
Sappheire
To Hemi:
My dear Hemingway,
I'm sorry to have left so precipitately. I did not give details of this to anyone at school but my faculty advisors, but I don't wish you to worry, so I will tell you the reason for my abrupt departure: my grandmother has come from Greece to stay with my parents- she's quite old and, if I'm to be entirely blunt, probably not long for this world. She requires some fairly constant care and assistance, which neither my mother nor father are in a position to give, and so I've come home for a bit to fill that role.
It's... trying. She misses Greece, of course. She's never lived anywhere else. I am trying to make what are probably her last few months comfortable ones, but it's difficult to effectively combat homesickness in an eighty-six year old woman. I do what I can.
How have you been faring? I hope you've been healing quickly and seamlessly, my friend, and that your doctors release you very soon, back into the wild where you belong. There are girls untamed, after all, and beer undrunk. Please keep me updated as to your progress?
My invitation to come and visit me is a standing one. Perhaps, if you have no plans for spring break, I can tempt you with the Oregon coast.
Best,
Sappheire
P.S. I think I recall aright in that you and Byron are friends? Please, if you know the address to which to send a letter, will you give me that information? I'd like to write to him, if it's not privileged information.
To Tom
My friend,
I'd like to apologise for giving such an impression of desperate haste when I left. I know I worried you, although characteristically, you didn't show it in the brief conversation we've had since. While the situation that's called me home is desperate, it is not truly an emergency... I have told you that my extended family resides in Greece? My grandmother has taken ill and, being quite, quite elderly, shall likely not entirely recover. My parents have brought her here to live with them, as my family in Greece are unable to adequately care for her, and as they are not in a position to give her the constant care she requires, I have come home to do so.
I imagine it will be only a matter of months.
She is quite homesick, I'm sorry to say, but she also knows it cannot be helped, and she is pleased that she may spend her dwindling time with her daughter and granddaughter, and the son-in-law she adores, as we are now her closest kin. I have quite an extended family in Greece, but they are more distant relations to her: neices and nephews and their children and cousins, etc. It was the more expedient choice to bring my grandmother here, rather than my parents and I to relocate to Greece for half a year.
For all that caring for her is work, it's pleasant work. I am close to her, and we talk a great deal. She is telling me the story of her life, in fits and bursts and anecdotes, and I've been writing it down before I go to sleep at night. Perhaps I shall publish her memoire, when she has gone. I shall ask her if she would mind, I think, but later.
I think you would enjoy her, and she you. I should like for you to meet one another. Would you consider coming to visit? I shall speak with my father, if you'd like, and I'm certain I can convince him to purchase your airfare. I confess you I am a bit lonely here. My grandmother is good company, to be sure, but she is largely my only company, as my parents are currently engaged in a significantly large construction contract in Seattle, and are absent from the house much of the time.
It would be good to have a third voice in conversation, and another presence in the house.
If nothing else, please do write often. Keep me apprised of the goings-on at Meridian and in Bartleby, and in your own life.
Best,
Sappheire