Emilia's Letter

My dearest Emilia has been such an ardent writer in her correspondence, and, while I’ve not reciprocated in the volume she has sent me, I must wonder after the fact that my last letter to her has still gone unanswered. The monster living in my mailbox seems almost penitent for his previous attempts to eat my hand, somehow must suspect my trips to gaze into the empty mailbox forebode some tragedy. Emilia’s last letter to me, the one I responded to last week, might offer a clue…

I cannot believe, dear Cami, my letters outnumber yours by a three to one ratio; sometimes the time between my letters seems short and the time between yours can seem long, but surely we have found a better balance than you say. Let us forgive the discrepancy, and we shall fancy ourselves of a normal relationship between a fortune teller and a poet; those unions, my dear Cami, by which two women might find friendship, even over such a distance, is a blessedness to be ours in its own time.

In regards to your queries of the absent memories of a loved one, whose name you say you cannot recall, I too have experienced a near identical situation in recent months, no doubt inspired by your inquiry. The name of my forgotten love escapes me, as does yours; I have reason to believe there is evidence available in some form of my own former life, which might alleviate the strain of memory. I have been warned away from such endeavors, as I am sure you have, dearest Cami, but the obsession of my waking thoughts, sparked by your own situation, I must confess, anguish me and demand answer.

Bumble Bee has been most vocal in his refusal to aide me in this matter, which, as he is often my only connection to the outside world, leaves me with little recourse in the matter. In truth, I know not where to begin without his creative musings. Tell me, have your companions, Barry and Melvin, offered much assistance in your own investigations?

Now, farewell, Cami, for you are owed twice more response from me before I again read your lovely hand.

Emilia~~

She mentioned a forgotten love. I honestly have no idea what she means by this. My mind, without fuel has begun to wobble in the last few nights, and with it my already faulty memory has sprung even more leaks. The Baron, who is to see to these things, has been preoccupied with some matter with the other powdered wigs. As someone used to say to me, “the Irish are always to wait with open hand for an Englishman to drop a paltry wage in, and then expected to grovel in thanks for the opportunity to starve another day.” Did someone say that to me, or did I just make it up? If Emilia’s letter is to be believed, and I had a vague remembrance of a lost love, then it would mean at one point I must have been loved. How grand!