December 1889

Do you remember Lizzy when we were seven years old? When the mid-April rains had finally stopped (it was a terribly stormy month that year) and mother allowed me to visit Midford Castle to see you? Do you remember how you laid out a tea party for two in your camellia garden, with white china teacups and fine linen napkins? How we were bundled with more cashmere and wool than I care to remember and how you took one look at me and laughed so brilliantly I couldn't find it in me to be angry at how you called me a roly poly for the rest of the afternoon?

Do you remember, Lizzy, when Aunt Frances called us in for luncheon and you insisted on fixing my cravat even though we were ten minutes late already? How we couldn't keep still as we sat at the dining table, our young, eager eyes stealing glances out the window, praying for the sun to stay and the weather to keep. You said something charming about rose petals and soft clouds and shepherd's wool—and it was easy, so easy, for you to steal another smile. And I let you keep it, don't you remember? Because back then, all my smiles were yours.

Do you remember how we fled to your garden as soon as we were able, my hand in yours and your hand in mine? Two of a kind, lingering in the golden gleam. We were so young and foolish, our minds heady with the charmed dreams of what could be. How things seemed so infinite in that little garden, how we could flee from one daydream to the next, molding reality to our liking with such ease and grace that even now, I can hardly recall anything except the brightness of your smile and the warmth of our fingers twined together, the heart of your palm against mine.

Do you remember our final game in that garden Lizzy? How you were the princess and I, the scholar. How we laughed and smiled as we slayed sorcerers and beasts—I was the king of alchemy and you were my queen of everything. All in the golden afternoon we played, with little hands and childish sighs, murmuring fragments of sentences that are half a dream to me. You smiled so often then, Lizzy—such a sunlit smile that reminded me of beautiful things and delicate butterfly wings. Even now, I can't put to words how lovely you are—if I try, I'll simply make a mess of things as I tend to do.

I wish for complexity and strive for inconsistency but, in truth, I desire nothing more than the simple daydreams we once created—so easily, so joyfully, in that white camellia garden.

Do you remember that story you told me? About rain and water pearls and how everything lovely began with a teardrop falling from the sky. You said it made the earth grow, that it made everything alive but I've never been much for rain Lizzy. I don't care about nourishment or consideration or any of those virtues poets seem to go on and on about without cognizance or sense. I don't care about those horrid metaphors and similes and allusions to prose no one can decipher but everyone pretends to because it's "sophisticated"—whatever that means nowadays.

I think the most beautiful things in the world begin with sunlight—begin with warmth and gentleness and Lizzy, if no other words can describe the sun-fire beauty of you, then let it be this: you are a sunbeam, bending across a sky that has no beginning or end. You are every beautiful thought I've ever had, every dream I've ever dreamt, and every impossible wish I have given away.

So I ask: do you remember that mid-April morning when dawn lit over the horizon? When the world was bathed in the palest gold and softest pink, when the morning dew still clung to the fresh grass and all the trees were silent in their evergreen state. When you took my hand and I stood by your side, just us two, and a Venetian sunrise. You looked ahead, the breeze blowing your hair back. It tickled my nose and I smiled when you turned to apologize because truthfully, I can't remember much of those colors or that sunrise.

I remember you—not the details of your face or the color of you dress but you, the very essence of you.

I've always remembered, even if such sentiments were unspoken.

I'm not quite sure how to send this letter to you but I know that one day, one day, this letter will reach you. As dawn rises and a new day begins, I have—for the first time in a long time—hope.

Yours.

- Eos: Greek goddess of the dawn

A/N: Yes I borrowed from the pen of the wondrous Lewis Carroll and his Alice in Wonderland poems - can anyone spot all the references? ;)

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