'...the marigold light setting the hazel forest of his eyes on fire. It was selfish of him really, to take something she loved so dearly as the woods and complicate it with... with them.'
The Avonlea Class of 1898- heading towards futures far away f...
//"Please, picture me ; in the trees, in the swing over the creek"//
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Gilbert tried to hide a shiver, tracing a single finger over the dry ink- they coiled into dauntingly familiar writing. Loops, folding into 't's and 'h's sent his mind racing, restless. He held the envelope closed, indulging in the peace of his ignorance. Whispers of the alternative were a raging temptation, but the fear of disappointment was a more persuasive force. Fingers over paper, waiting for a shift, for the letters to flow into something far more acceptable for his stubborn conscious.
"So, when are you gonna open it?" Fred's curiosity was evident, he continuously peered over at the letter.
"I will. But, I can't. How can I? I don't know." Gilbert shook his head.
Fred sighed, exasperated, and set aside a dusty shovel with a heavy clunk. It collided with something metal, lost in the knee-high pile of ancient clutter that the pair of them had evicted from the crumbling garden shed. The resulting mess spilled out across a wilderness of withering grass, slowly flattening with autumns brittle winds. It was barely contained by a high stone wall strangled by ivy- it peeled away at the bricks, weaving through it as if it was nothing more than loose soil. Three towering oaks guarded the back, its branches dipping low, cradling the old wooden structure like a nest. One had to crouch a little to reach it, bare twigs would catch and snag on Gilbert's hair and clothing. It was more sheltered than the rest of the garden, warmth sometimes could be found in the dense bed of nettles, moss and dry leaves. But on windy days, the trees would sway and writhe agitatedly from their roots, arms swinging uncontrollably. Fred warned not to venture out on those days.
"Look, how about I open it and save you the effort?" Fred suggested, sitting down on a over turned box- it reminded Gilbert of the sort they used to collect apples in back home. "That is possibly the worst idea you've had." Gilbert stated, moving to sit near his friend. He leant on the remains of a old wheel barrow, the bottom side now exposed to the light for the first time in what looked like years. "I thought you would have been happy, to get a letter from your village friends. Figured it might help the home sickness." Shrugged Fred. "I'm not home sick. I barely have time to think about it, with all the work you pile onto me." Gilbert lied, gesturing to the pile of rubbish lying all around them. "You get letters from Bash all the time. And one from that girl Diana. But now you're freaking out, so it can't be from either of them." He deducted, shifting his position on the box as it groaned under the tall boy's weight. "Ok, I'll just open it." Gilbert sighed, cringing as he began to break the seal on the envelope. "Don't rip it." "Shush." Gilbert carefully withdrew a thin, off-white letter out of it's folds.
Dear Gilbert Blythe, I don't know when this letter will reach you, or if I'll even decide to send it at all. But if you are in fact reading this, I must have done. It's strange to think that it might be days, or even weeks between writing it myself, to you receiving it. I don't think I've ever sent a letter so far, perhaps with exception of the inquiry made to Glanarch, Scotland- that was in chase of details about my families history there. UOT must be exciting, so new. So different. I'll be the first to admit I do envy you some. Only a little, but with your explorations on the steam ship then schooling in Toronto, you have explored much more than I even hope to accomplish in my life time.
