A Letter to Annabelle

Dear Annabelle,

I miss your company so terribly much. The miles between us weigh heavy on my mind, and I can not wait to travel them to be reunited with you. Only a month more, and the wait will be over.

It feels as if this summer is stretching on endlessly. The sky here is colored the faded blue of the denim jeans I wear out to the fields everyday, and as we tend the wheat, its color turns ever closer to the eventual brown of the harvest season. When I’m out there, the wind comes down from Ford Bluff, and some days it’s strong enough to knock a man over. It knocked over Ben Smith’s barn just last week. I know you would be concerned after any victims of the collapse, but Smith hasn’t used the barn in ages and I am pleased to report, all were safe.

I drive by my old schoolhouse everyday, and being so familiar with it, I see the many small changes on its aging visage. It is not used anymore, on account of most young folk going in to Omak for schooling. So the elements are allowed to wage their war on its sagging exterior, which is strange to my mind, as I remember when it was freshly painted. I have never, until this summer, thought of a building as mortal. Of myself as mortal. This got me thinking strangely, Annabelle. I feel like my mind is running away with itself and if you would indulge me, I will write my thoughts down here.

I need this denim-skied summer to end, Annabelle. I feel as if I am loosing pieces of myself to the wind. I look back at the pictures I made on our outing to Kalaloch, and I feel the man who took those pictures is far distant from the man I am today. If I am being quite honest with you Annabelle, I fear this new incarnation of my soul. I find myself frightened, melancholy and lovesick. There is so little that makes sense anymore and I desperately wish that confusion would stop.

Well the truck is about to arrive, and I must seal this letter up before I leave. Next month I will see you Annabelle and my heart leaps with joy for it.

Your friend,

M. W. Monson