These days I’m drinking tea to stay warm. The water takes so long to boil, but the anticipation warms in its own way. Mama would be upset to see how I’ve let her house grow cold; she worked so hard to make it warm. The quilts have faded, but her stitches refuse to fray, even with my nightly clenching and thrashing among them. The winter lemons are blooming, but I cannot bring myself to pick them, let alone squeeze them into my food or drinks. I know this tea wouldn’t be so bland with their help, but the back door will not budge against the packed snow. I have not bought a shovel in years, and the basement is much too cold to go scavenging.
All in all, I am doing well, though my descriptions may be bleak. I live amongst memories, and this is always as I pictured myself. When others would thrive in sunshine, I held out for overcast days when I could sit next to the window, staring out for hours. There is nothing left for me to look forward to, and my eyes welcome the rest from strain.
Give my love to the children and to Ren,