lettres from another time

Stormy gray heart

my dear daughter, It makes me sad and sad at the same time because we live separately in the same time, in one world, each of us cramming ourselves inside a world similar to ourselves. I am happy here in Tallahassee, that Florida has always been generous to me, and I am inside the Arthur Gillette nursing home. I am also happy with what I have and what I have achieved. In my whole life, I have so many friends, and so many memories of the past that I can live the rest of my life busy with them. I just want to ask you for something, maybe one last thing that you do for me. I just want your home address, from today on when I write to you. My letters, don't read them, they're not yours, they're from an old friend, but I don't want her to know that I'm here in Tallahassee in a nursing home. I don't want my letters to reach her at my address. I would like you to forward the messages you receive from me to her, so that they will reach your home address in Chicago. I just need you to re-send the messages from your address. It is a simple matter that does not require a lot of time or effort, and I do not know anyone I trust enough at this age. Everyone I trusted was taken by war and life. I hope you agree. I am waiting for a quick response from you. George Miller Hall To Lillian Charles Miller Hall

After I wrote the letter, I felt a different kind of life, as if there was another life waiting for me to live. I opened new doors for myself to wait for something, and I realized that death means that you have nothing left to wait for from this life, but there is still something waiting for me and because of Sarah Heather or whoever this is. Mary Brooks, I'll try again. A few days later, I received a letter from my daughter, and she replied

By Lillian Charles Miller Hall I am happy that you are writing again, even if the letters are not for me, but at least there is still someone who encourages you to write for him. I am also fine, and I do not really know how to write you a letter or how to express my longing for you, but because of work I cannot come to visit you, but I will do that. Surely someday, I promise you that, And I will also re-send messages for you. You can always ask for other things if you wish. I am here for you too, Dad. If she agreed, I knew she would agree because she is my daughter, she would not refuse anything to me, but it was scaring me to start that game now. I set the chess table and started moving my first soldier, but I don’t know who to play with yet. Am I playing with fate or is fate playing with me? Am I making fun of love, or is love making fun of me, but I was ready to do it. I was thinking a lot about what to say to her in the first message, but I found something that could attract her attention to me, and to be honest, I stole her home address from the computer that Emily Walter uses in the hallway. It contains all the employee information here. I wrote her address on a piece of paper and my hand was shaking. I was afraid that my situation would be discovered, that the game would end before I started it. My hand, which was steady and not moved by anything, was now trembling as well. I hoped that it would remain still only when writing. I was afraid that it would betray me as well. Abigail would come to change my bed, clean the room, and help me go. To the toilet, she would take care of me as if she was another child of hers, and I would often feel that I was her child as well, with those small, bright eyes and those gaping teeth. I felt secure in her presence in a way that reassured me, and I used to joke with her by saying, “You will always remain black Abigail and I will remain old George Miller Hall.” Mary Brooks was not taking care of me. I would meet her by chance in the large corridor, or when I was passing by in my wheelchair to the park. I would see her sitting there with other old people, and I gave myself some time so that I would not meet her too often, or that she would forget that I was here so that I could write to her from there. That night, they brought a new woman who was not old. She was only in her late forties and suffered from severe dementia and Alzheimer’s. She was violent, screaming, throwing things against the wall, and hitting the employees, but we gradually got used to her, and after a month and a half of chaos and old people and sick people coming in. Until here, I kept writing to my daughter, and that month and a half was all I could wait, so as not to start writing to her, but in the end I decided to start writing her the first letter tomorrow,