It's been a year since we've buried you.
You must have known how much I cared for you, I knew exactly where we stood, what we had together. Though except for me missing you, in my own way, everything is much the same here. Perhaps some small things are different, but it's hardly been a year, Charles, you cannot expect great life altering changes.
There's still the dressing gong being rung at six, there's still grapes from the greenhouses, his Lordship still walks Isis in the afternoon. But they've replaced the curtains in our rooms, I'm afraid. The house runs almost smoothly without you. The 'Times' comes in the morning, Mr Bates irons it. Jimmy's gone to Lady Anstruther's. Daisy to the farm. Lady Mary has her suitors. But while I think of all this normalcy, there's gaping holes where you used to be. The fact the silver isn't as shiny as it used to be speaks volumes.
Charles, I keep thinking of what you said: "We shout and scream and wail and cry, but in the end we must all die". That life is a circle, renewing all the time. But it's not true, because only you were you, your footsteps will never be filled. When I see your pantry, you should be in there and I miss you by my side at the table.
Life goes on and a year apart is long, too long, much too long. Still there is nothing much to report. Old Lady Grantham still disapproves of nearly everything, Tom is still uneasy, Lady Edith even more so. And Anna's told me there's a baby on the way. Which is wonderful news.
Really.
Elsie crumpled up the letter with shaking hands and threw it in the wastepaper bin. She got up, smoothed her skirt and left her room.
She had work to do.
A/N: Based on 'Kees', by Michel van der Plas
