My Dearest Matthew,
I don't quite know where to start, and to be quite honest I feel rather silly. The others suggested that I take up an interest in something, anything. I tried reading, but apart from a few novels to pass a winter night or spring afternoon on the lawn, you know I'm not particularly one for burying my nose amidst dusty paper. I found the stories I had once been so fond of, have transformed into merely old inked words pressed on stale pages. So reading's out.
Last week I tried going out for a ride on one of the horses, poor beast barely recognized me it had been so long. I suppose I can't really blame him, I don't recognize myself some days either. But the sad truth is I simply no longer enjoy it. I felt as though mother nature was playing cruel tricks on me for sport. The wind seemed colder. Indecisively rainy clouds loomed with the occasional drop or two. Even the fleeting moments of sunshine seemed too bright and hot on my face. The whole day proved to be an utter disappointment.
So here I am, writing to bring some form of solace. Because you see, Matthew, I'm having a rather difficult time finding any remnants of beauty in the world. I would never admit it to the others, but somehow, writing to you as though you will actually read this letter makes me feel as though you're still here…with me. But you aren't here, are you Matthew? You're gone. Forever absent. There are moments I still feel you, whether it be your arms draping around me in the middle of the night, or a faint kiss on my forehead when I least expect it. I lay awake at night and physically feel my heart pining for you. Where ever you are now Matthew, I am there with you, wholeheartedly. I never thought I would welcome the idea of death with open arms, but here I am. Truly the only thing tethering me to the "Land of the Living" is our little chap.
He's perfect you know. I decided to call him George, I hope that's fine by you. The truth is, I'm scared I'm not quite fit for the task at hand. I can't do this, not without you. I'm terrified I will ruin him somehow. I can't help but feel as though all the gentleness and softness in me was buried with you when you left us, never to be resurrected. When I hear him crying in the night all I hear is your voice. I know I should find comfort in that, but I can't. It proves too painful. When I hold him in my arms, it is as though God himself has plucked me up and thrown me back to the day he was born. Back to the hospital. I smell the sun dried white linen. I see the white walls. I feel the faintest warmth on my arm where the sun crept in from between the curtains. I see the young nurse usher Papa into the room to deliver the news. I remember he broke down crying, and before his lips rendered the first hint as to what was the matter, I knew. And in that moment Matthew, my mind when black, and my heart went with it. I looked down at our sleeping babe and thought how silly I was for ever believing I would get my story book ending. I knew I was naive to ever think I could be the mother you expected me to become. I thought of how foolish I was for giving in to the nonsensical idea that I deserved to be happy, what an outrageous expectation. I told myself I wouldn't cry, yet here I am blubbering like a fool.
Well my love, I mustn't write all day, "how ever much I might want to." I expect Anna to walk in at any moment to make sure I haven't thrown myself out the window. If I don't get a chance to write again, take the liberty to simply read my heart. It seems you were the only one who managed to navigate through it anyway. I love you so terribly much my darling.
With all the love left,
Your Mary Crawley