“Melville writes
“No man can read a fine author, and relish him to his very bones, while he reads, without subsequently fancying to himself some ideal image of the man and his mind ... There is no man in whom humor and love are developed in that high form called genius; no such man can exist without also possessing, asthe indispensable complement of these, a great, deep intellect, which drops down into the universe like a plummet.
“Melville couldn’t contain his enthusiasm, and it eventually pushed the more subtle Hawthorne away. Melville was still writing about the loss decades later. It begs several points of thought. How well do we really know others? How easy is it to overstep when we are full of energy and words like Melville, but the object of our affection is guarded and quiet like Hawthorne? Today, let’s think of someone opposite of ourselves and send them a letter of appreciation.” She removed her glasses and tucked the paper into a folder on the table, signaling it was time to begin.
Daisy guffawed. “I had no idea those two men were even friends.”
“Melville dedicatedMoby-Dickto Hawthorne,” I said.
She shook her head and lifted her shoulders. “I knew that, but it never occurred to me that they knew one another outside of reading one another’s work.”
I pressed my lips. I’d heard somewhere that the men had only lived about six miles apart, but I supposed that was a much greater distance then than it was today.
Grace patted Daisy’s shoulder. “How’s it going over here?”
“We’re just getting started,” she said.
“Who will you write to?” Grace asked, eyes sweeping to meet mine.
“Yeah, Emma,” Daisy said, picking up on Grace’s pointed tone and faux innocent expression. “Who are you writing to?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted cautiously, unnerved by Grace’s quiet intensity and wondering where she was headed.
The older woman smiled sweetly. “Davis gives me the impression the two of you are becoming quite close.”
Daisy’s eyes bulged.
I briefly considered unloading every sordid detail, just to get it all off my chest. Instead, I went with the simpler version. “Yes, we’ve become friends.”
Grace’s smart blue eyes widened by a fraction. “He seems awfully affected by the other men in your life, for someone who’s just a friend.”
“I don’t have other men in my life,” I said. What had she said to him?
“You receive letters every day, and I hear you’re still getting flowers. You certainly are the belle of the ball at class time.” She tipped her head slightly, and I followed her gaze to Paul, then Michael.
“Also friends,” I said.
“What about the flowers?” Daisy asked.
“I have no idea.”
“You have a secret admirer,” Daisy said. “It’s so romantic. Especially since you’re swearing off men. What if the sender is your soulmate?”
I fought the urge to drop my head against the desk.
Another classmate called to Grace, and she moved on. Daisy got to work, apparently inspired.
I turned my attention to the stark white paper before me, and I knew exactly who needed a letter from me today.
Dear Emma,
I paused, allowing myself a moment to enjoy the endearment. I needed to be nicer to myself more often. And I should expect others to be nicer too.
I want to remind you that you’re resilient. You thought you were defeated more than once in your search for peace and joy, especially during your early days in Amherst, but you understand yourself better now, and you’ve begun to heal. That took guts. And I’m proud of you.
I hope you never stop writing letters to yourself and the other people you love. What a wonderful way to make them feel special.
The words flowed freely; then I wrote a half dozen more letters before leaving Village Books. I stuffed three into envelopes headed for Willow Bend. One to my folks, another to Cecily, and the last to Annie. I discreetly tucked a letter into Daisy’s cubby and left one with Grace’s name on it at the counter. I added the letter to myself to a collection of kind words I planned to take out and read whenever I was down.
