We Are the Scribes by Randi Pink

Author:Randi Pink
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Feiwel & Friends

25

Dearest, oh Dearest,

Never has there been and never will there be a young woman such as yourself. Never will there be a moment such as this.

It is sad, really, if you take the time to think of it. And that is, after all, something I now have in abundance—time.

I’ve listened to your song by that name, if you want to call it that. Time. It is a yelling more so than a singing, but I will give you this, the writer, like us, is a poet.

Ticking away the moments that make up the dull day …

Ah, time. Fleeting, manipulative, mind-twisting, back-bending time. Enough of it transforms peaks into valleys. But trees? Time is no match for those.

I adore trees. Have I told you this?

I nearly worship them. They give with no expectation to receive.

I wished trees to shrink down and become my companions. That was a rare thing on the plantation—true friendship. Outside of one’s family, I found myself disappointed quite a lot. But time …

Alas, time brought about a change.

Ambition is a disease for the young. This is not clear. Ambition is, rather, a disease of those who believe they have an abundance of time. But the older we get, the more it is shed from our bodies like skins from a snake. It doesn’t happen all at once, oh no. Selfish ambition falls away and we forget to care about the competition’s standing in the race. We then care only for what matters. Ah, pain. Children. Family. The truest of loves.

In my most humble opinion, dear Scribe, the sooner in life you understand this simple fact, the better you will feel at the tail end of it.

There is a debate that crops up every so often and it takes me aback. It is a question of whether time exists at all in the first place. What a stupid proposition. Please excuse my use of the word “stupid” here, dear Scribe, fore I cannot think of a better one.

Of course time exists. Debating the existence of time is akin to debating the existence of gray hairs on the head or clouding of the pupils. It is unwise to take time discussing time. It is, I dare say, a waste of … yes … time.

This is a rambling letter. The most rambling letter and I will confess why this is the case:

I find myself sitting too long with my thoughts. When I am not writing these scrolls to you, Dearest, I am cursed to sit still and watch.

I watch you and I feel.

I feel.

Feeling is a necessary part of being alive, but feeling hurts sometimes. I watch you, Love. Like a mother bird watches her freshly hatched chick. I saw you walking down the stairs of that aircraft. You did it first. You took charge. You will not understand this part at all, because you are not yet a mother. But it hurt watching you try. Even the potential that you might have stumbled hurt. The worry of it hurt. But you did not fall, you triumphed.

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