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The Beginning of the World Often Comes 1998-

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September 25, 1998

 

Dear Jonathan,

     It seems that I have broken another one of my promises. This would be the second time I have failed to retain a promise concerning you; I am beginning to distinguish a sequence. (It seems you continue to be an exception to the things I cogitate to be immobile.) I know I should be spleened by this or disappointed in myself for contradicting Grandfather, but presently, these feelings are existing in only miniature amounts. Mostly I feel relieved (released? I am not transparent with the distinction). In truth, I am not unequivocally certain why I am choosing today in particular to resuscitate our correspondence. For numerous months, I was certain that our correspondence had been cut with Grandfather’s hands. (He was very determining in that manner.) When I posted back the currency from your most contemporary letter, I wholeheartedly expected that to be our last interaction. But the story we are telling together is not over, will not be until the last whisper of you, me, and Trachimbrod is wholly vanished.

     Volumes have happened in the ephemeral termination of our letters. Father has not returned since the day he left, and this makes me a very gratified person. Little Igor has not yet forgiven me for that evening. However he is not proximal with Father any longer and I have a beefy time to entomb the hatchet with him. I cogitate that Mother is a happier person now. When she comes home from the café sometimes she is whistling and I am contented for this. (If you are impressed by my English, I will inform you that my new English course is also a writing course, and I am learning in many jumps.) I have started to save money for America again, although I do not believe that I will ever see it. (Does this make me a foolish person, Jonathan?)

     There is not much to say concerning Grandfather’s funeral. I think you would’ve liked it, Jonathan. It was very poignant (is that the correct word? It appears recurrently in your letters). It was in February, and the world was white with the descending snow. I watched Grandfather descend with the snow into the earth. Then I watched the earth descend onto Grandfather.

     Concerning your writing, with exception to the penultimate division, which still remains with Sammy Davis Jr. Jr., I have reread your words many times over all these days. I have ruminated on truths and faithfulness enough to make a list that rivals Brod’s, and I think that our not-truths are not unforgivable.

     I still adventure to the beach to roost, notwithstanding a lesser amount because of my not-so-premium vocation. But when I am roosting, I still find myself picturing the white line painted on the sand between us. It seems as it has become aged somehow, and it reminds me greatly of the photo of Augustine that brought you to Ukraine to begin with. In this story we are making I am still the Gypsy girl, you are still Safran; this has not changed. But I am tired, Jonathan and I do not wish for our story to terminate as the Gypsy girl and Safran’s had. Chiefly, we are ourselves. I still desire to be a person who chooses for more than against. And perhaps it is because I am young and stupid, but I have missed this. (I had almost forgotten what writing to you remembered like.) I desire for our story to continue, but this time I want to make it a faithful one. As the Gypsy girl asked Safran, I am presently asking you to join me and adventure into a new volume of our lives, together. I  hope this time you will accept.

Love (guilelessly),

Alex