We have had a light snow this morning! Only a dusting, really, but I traced characters with my boot heels in the snow and felt very fine. I am so eager to see you to be home. I know I must deal with ugliness in time and perhaps less even than I imagine myself to have, but still. I am hopeful.
How are your mother and Max? And how was town? I will be contented with any agenda you should set if it includes walks and stargazing and any other thing. When should you like for me to visit? Diagon Alley would do, briefly. My plans beyond what we have talked long of are slim. I promise not to tutor you as I am sure I have nothing whatsoever to teach, anxious and aimless as I grow daily. I write and scratch and strike and produce nothing. It is shameful and I am utterly without excuse. Zelma claims I am very distracted and hardly of use to her, either, but it seems she does wish me to return after the holidays. She has given me several books and has demanded I finish them one and all before 10 January. I have already begun on the first, a memoir.
Am I a gentle woman? I feel bristling and charged, every nerve a spiking fright. Should you put but a finger to the tip of my nose you would have quite a shock. Still. I will tell you when I can look you in the eye, or perhaps your shoulder, or your booted feet.
What would you have for Christmas?
Padma
3 December 1998
Dear Theodore,
We have had a light snow this morning! Only a dusting, really, but I traced characters with my boot heels in the snow and felt very fine. I am so eager to see you to be home. I know I must deal with ugliness in time and perhaps less even than I imagine myself to have, but still. I am hopeful.
How are your mother and Max? And how was town? I will be contented with any agenda you should set if it includes walks and stargazing and any other thing. When should you like for me to visit? Diagon Alley would do, briefly. My plans beyond what we have talked long of are slim. I promise not to tutor you as I am sure I have nothing whatsoever to teach, anxious and aimless as I grow daily. I write and scratch and strike and produce nothing. It is shameful and I am utterly without excuse. Zelma claims I am very distracted and hardly of use to her, either, but it seems she does wish me to return after the holidays. She has given me several books and has demanded I finish them one and all before 10 January. I have already begun on the first, a memoir.
Am I a gentle woman? I feel bristling and charged, every nerve a spiking fright. Should you put but a finger to the tip of my nose you would have quite a shock. Still. I will tell you when I can look you in the eye, or perhaps your shoulder, or your booted feet.