(cont. Dec. 25, 2014, previous pages UNSENT)
Merry Christmas. I’m alone this year. Bruce and Fiona are in Belgium, which is good. You know, that’s good for them to be there.
The last time I wrote to you (in October) I was telling you about what had happened with Harry Landy, and the fact of the matter is that the events of October 22 are stuck right here at the front of my mind. I find myself thinking of Harry regularly, even more than I did before. Honestly, I get to imagining him living here. As horrible as it was that day, him walking from Washington to Arnold, and James and Marly half dead with terror, and all the things that could have happened but, mercifully, did not, I will admit, it felt wonderful the moment he showed up onmydoorstep. And the whole time he was here—just the one night—I was, well, I suppose I just loved that he was here (even though I know the situation was awful awful). Does it make sense what I’m saying?
I went for a walk this morning before the rain started. When I woke up I knew it was going to rain because the scent of it was so strong, so I went on out in my boots. It wasn’t too cold. The sky was dark gray and moving quickly. I walked on down toward the river along the path. Have I ever described the path to you? I don’t know that I’ve ever written it down at all. I love to go down the path by myself.
You cross the street from my driveway and there is a magnolia as tall as two light poles, and beside it is a little opening you might not notice if you were passing by, but there it is. You tuck in and then you’re in the trees. In winter it’s rather easier, whereas in the thick of summer it’s much more like walking into a tunnel made by dryads, but anyway you walk in and then the path becomes clear after a few feet. There are others on the street who use the path, and sometimes the boys from the neighborhood behind will come through with their fishing poles and tackleboxes and use the path. I love to see that. It reminds me of the past when everything was right, you know that way boys walk, heads down, strong backs, kicking at the ground. But you walk through and the trees are all skinny and tall and there is one massive old oak, which fell, oh, maybe fifteen years ago now during a big storm, and it’s just there along the path and you have to go around it or over it, and I go around it now. It’s covered with a thick, bright green moss and lichen the color of those light mint Tic Tacs and usually you see some little thing or another scurrying around, like chipmunks or birds. Once there was a robin who had her nest there in the corner of a branch. She had her nest there for a few years, but then one morning it was gone, probably a fox. Anyway, I like to pass the fallen oak and see all the things to which it generously plays the host, letting all sorts feast. That old tree just makes me feel good. A bit past the tree there’s a steep climb down to the water level, but there are some roots and stones that give me purchase, and I take a walking stick typically. I forgot to mention that, my walking stick. I found it some years ago now, there off the path. There is moss rather all the way down along the edges, and it’s just this beautiful green, and then you’re down at the edge of the river, and there is the gray moving water. I love to see it. The river, and the journey down, and then I walk along for a while, usually. I’ll fish trash out from the edges sometimes and tuck it in my pocket. Sometimes I see herons. It smelled cold this morning, and rainy, and there’s of course the briny must of the water, that smell, and the rotting trunks and leaves from the fall, and I love all of this, but it’s melancholy, too, in a way. It’s hard to explain it exactly, but it is gorgeous and melancholy all at once. I won’t be able to see it, at some point, and when I can’t see it I won’t be able to go down there alone, which is really the only way I like to go down at all. A companion would spoil it, I think, though of course you’d be welcome to come along. I like to go down to get away from everything man-made and I feel like I’mfar out in the wild, and then I find I can think. Anyway, by the time I got back up to the house I was ready for a cup of tea and writing some letters, and later I’ll make a cherry pie and take it over for dinner with Trudy and Millie. Millie’s husband is dead, and Trudy’s been divorced longer than me. We’ll play cards and listen to Christmas records. Millie has an ancient record player.
FROM: [email protected]
DATE: Dec 28, 2014 07:54 PM
SUBJECT: HERE GOES NOTHING (Attn: Basam)
Hello Basam,
I hope you still work here because I have decided to send in my spit to see what kind of mutt I am. Please do be sure, once you run it through your machines and get whatever you need, that it’s thrown in the bin. I hate the thought they would take the DNA of an old woman like myself and God forbid try to clone me. I wonder, are you a reader? I could never trust a person who wasn’t a reader, though my doctor says I am going to go blind here in the not too distant future, at which point I suppose I will become a nonreader. Did you read the bookNever Let Me Goby Kazuo Ishiguro? I am haunted by it. How long should I expect to wait before I am contacted with my results? Additionally, it’s terribly unfortunate about your home in Syria. And of course I apologize for the offense I caused when our correspondence began, flippantly referring to your foreignness as being “Indian.” I was worked up and I often find myself behaving with less civility over e-mail, and now as I type this I do feel rather ashamed of that carelessness. I hope you will forgive me. How old are your children? I had three children, but I’ve two now, one of whom seems determined to make a life as far from me as possible. Anyway, they will be the reason for which I’m embarking on this ridiculous venture of DNA testing. Did I mention to you I’m adopted? Parentage of unknown origin, and now the family decides it wants to know. Even my grandchildren are heckling me. From which institution did you receive your engineering degree?
Kind regards,
Sybil Van Antwerp
FROM:[email protected]
DATE: Dec 29, 2014 01:19 PM
SUBJECT: Re: HERE GOES NOTHING (Attn: Basam)
Dear Ms. Van Antwerp,
I do continue to work for Kindred Project, but please allow me to clarify that I work in an office with a team of customer service representatives from the company and your DNA is not en route to my office specifically. We do not conduct DNA testing here; it is outsourced to labs around the country, so I will not personally receive, process, or dispose of your sample, but I can assure you it will be handled with professionalism and care. It will be six to eight weeks before you will hear about your results.
Your apology is noted, and previous offenses are forgiven. You are not the first person to mis-assign my ethnicity, and you will unfortunately not be the last.
I am a reader, but I have not read the book you mentioned. I will add it to my list and see if it is available at the library near my home. My children are ten and thirteen, a boy and a girl. I am sorry about your oncoming blindness, and moreover, sorry for the loss of your other child. While I have mercifully not lost a child, I have lost many family members, my home, my country, my religion, so I think I can understand a little of your grief, though when my brother died in the war it toppled my mother, so perhaps that specific grief, that of a mother losing her son, I cannot. My degree is from a university in Egypt called Kafr El Sheikh.
Please don’t hesitate to reach out with additional questions! Thank you for contacting Kindredproject.org.
Basam
Sybil Van Antwerp
17 Farney Rd.
Arnold, MD 21012
January 5, 2015
Sybil,
I was clearing out some things and I found boxes of our letters. I went back to see if I could find the oldest ones and look at me! I’d forgotten the circumstances of the first letter you wrote me. I think we started more regular letters when I moved to CT in high school, the first was when you wrote to me from Camp Cedar Ridge when you went for the month the summer after jr. high—when your mother first had cancer. I cannot believe I’ve got it. I was so jealous of you that summer off to sleepaway camp while I was babysitting my cousins! I reread a bunch of the letters, and with mixed feelings. On one hand, it took me back to that time, and it was a dear feeling. Not nostalgia, exactly, but something like comfort—maybe some sympathy for who we were then. On the other hand, seeing things now as an adult through the lens of who we were as children is—there is something painful or uncomfortable about it, and now, knowing how things would go with Margaret’s sickness. I had forgotten about Felix not speaking after your mother died. Didn’t that go on for a couple of years? I can’t believe I’d forgotten that. I’ve enclosed a few. I am happy to send more. I hope it isn’t too hard reading them.
I’m reading Travels with Charley by John Steinbeck (which is charming—an intellectual cross-country road trip). What are you reading?
