There really wasn't that much I could
do when the brown parcel arrived at my doorstep that morning. I
remember sitting in my favourite chair, a light green affair, facing
the glass door and window that overlooked my balcony on the first
floor. The manilla parcel was propped on my lap, similar to how a
father would sit a child, before telling them a tall tale before bed.
Since hearing the news it has been
most awfully rainy, but today, the morning sun shone pale and alone
in the sky, its morning rays rolling over the hills and valleys like
pastry. The sunlight did nothing more than make the surroundings
shine a muddy, decayed brown.
I usually lean against my balcony and
watch the life of the countryside sway by. I can see a good two miles
from here, all the hills and fields that surround this place like
pigeons over bread. the vast armys of trees stand proud in their
ranks, and the greenish, greenish grass of the country farms. Up
until today, I was used to seeing them coated in a fine rain; the
faintest of drizzles that threw itself down with such grim force and
determination that one could have mistook it for splinters of a
falling sky.
The two things I remember most, as I
heard those immortal words for the very first time, was the constant
patter of rain against the glass and the cold brass against my ear.
She had relayed the news on the telephone, chocking back tears louder
and more ferocious than any storm cloud could ever muster. I do not
remember if I cried myself; my most vivid recollection after that was
that I had planned where I would put a commemorative plaque. It would
be just outside her door. It would be light blue, white lettering.
We kept a close correspondence by
telephone or letter, though we only saw each other face to face on
the occasional weekend. I'm rather glad she didn't tell me the news
face to face. I would have hated to remember her in that way.
I slumped heavily in my chair, and
called the maid to bring me a tea. I picked up the parcel and read
the label for a second time:
The final letter of Harriet Buxton
the maid had told me that grief works
indifferent ways for different people, and that in a day or two this
might all swell over me, bringing no end to tears, grief, and hurt.
All I did was reread the label for a third, fourth and fifth time.
I stared out of the window, wishing
it would start raining again in torrents, just as it had been doing.
I was surprised when it did so, the first few droplets shattering
against the balcony oor, window, then finally an entire tundra of
rain showered over the never ending green hills.
Today was March 11th, a
day that will echo throughout my memory as one of the darkest days I
have ever faced. She was thirty-two.
