To Ophelia:
Birding in the Azores? What will you be doing next? I’m sure things will work out with Sue Ann. She’s a good soul, but needs lots of space, and less time. Buy her a green balloon next time you go to the zoo.
To Dr. Kevorkian:
I’m so sorry we didn’t make it to the party–by all accounts it was fabulous! I had no idea your daughter was so accomplished–and the flowers! and the music! Next year, I promise you, we’ll be in Taos for the season.
To Emily Dickinson:
Thank you so much for the vase. Just knowing its lineage makes it precious to me–Ludwig, and the Washingtons, Marvin and Ann-Louise. But it’s beautiful, too–the shape and the way the light plays around the thin clear rim. I shall keep it filled with apricot-colored roses, in memory of our times at the Cape.
To Clara Schumann:
Whatever can I say? How can I possibly apologize enough? My only excuse, which is of course inexcusable, is that I didn’t know how deeply involved you were with him. Of course I’ll never, ever see him again, and of course I’ve burned the photograph. I hope in time you’ll forgive me.
To John Locke:
The air this morning is like clear green tea, and the mists are draping over the hills like little lacy handkerchiefs. Oh, I know you accuse me of being sentimental, and I suppose I am, but I keep expecting you to appear between the trees like a Knight on Horseback, or better, the King of Ireland’s Son.
To Hillary Clinton:
She had the baby, did Mother tell you? And she still won’t say who its father is. It’s a big child, with clear gray eyes and long fingers. I strongly suspect the oboeist, but I may be wrong. I wish you hadn’t left her in the station that night, but there it is. I know quite well how difficult she can be.
GladErrand 