My Dearest Arthur,
It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Not that you’re keeping track in the way I am, but the silence still echoes sometimes, a familiar companion in the quiet hours. I find myself writing to you again, these words forming on the page as if you’re just across the room, listening to the soft murmur of my thoughts. The world keeps spinning, of course, oblivious to the little crater you left behind, yet every now and then, a gust of wind, a particular scent, or a snippet of an old song will swirl up, and for a fleeting moment, you’re right here.
Do you remember that old oak tree by the river, where we used to skip stones and talk about everything and nothing at all? I walked past it last week. The leaves are starting to turn, a riot of golds and deep crimsons, just as you always loved. I even saw a pair of kingfishers, flashing their brilliant blue across the water. It was a sight that usually, I’d be desperate to share with you, knowing you’d appreciate the subtle shift in the light, the way the colours deepen just before dusk. Instead, I just stood there, a silly smile playing on my lips, imagining your delighted sigh. It’s funny how these small, everyday beauties still carry your imprint.
Life here is… well, it’s life. Sarah finally got that promotion she’d been working so hard for, and you would have been so proud of her tenacity. She’s still got that spark, that fierce determination we both admired so much. And remember little Leo, your grand-nephew, who was just a toddler when you last saw him? He’s started school now, all gangly limbs and boundless curiosity. He asked about the stars the other night, wondering if they were holes in the sky letting the light from another world through. I told him you would have loved that question, that you always saw the magic in the ordinary. He has your eyes, you know, when he looks at something with wonder.
I’ve also finally started sketching again, something I’d put aside for so long. You were always my biggest cheerleader, weren’t you? Always telling me to ‘capture the essence, not just the lines.’ I’ve been focusing on the subtle textures of old wood and the play of light on water, trying to find that same depth you saw in everything. It feels like a small tribute, a way to keep a part of our shared world alive. It’s challenging, and often frustrating, but I feel your quiet encouragement, like a warm hand on my shoulder, urging me to keep going. I even managed to finish that landscape of the hills we often hiked – the one with the crooked fence line you always found so endearing. I think you’d approve.
I’ve been trying my hand at gardening too, coaxing some reluctant roses into bloom. It’s not quite your green thumb, but I remember how you always said patience was the key, and a little bit of talking to them didn’t hurt either. I find myself whispering encouragement to the seedlings, just as I heard you do. It’s a small, comforting ritual, a quiet way to feel connected, as if your wisdom still guides my hands. Sometimes, in the rustle of the leaves, I almost hear your gentle laughter. The seasons change, and with them, the landscape of my days. There are moments of profound peace, and others where the ache of missing you feels as fresh as ever.
But even in the melancholic moments, there’s a warmth, a deep gratitude for the time we shared. You taught me so much, not just with words, but with the quiet strength of your presence. Your memory is an anchor, keeping me steady in the currents of change. It’s not goodbye, not really. More like ‘until we meet again,’ in the quiet spaces between heartbeats and in the echoes of a life beautifully lived. The thought of you still brings a gentle smile to my face, a soft ache to my heart, and a quiet sense of enduring love that time and distance cannot diminish. Perhaps that’s the real magic, isn’t it? The way love transcends everything.
With all my love, always,
Eleanor