Dear Stewart,

Merry Christmas! Red and white against the snow is bright, but we burst and proclaim Christ is born. As I wanted to attach this candy cane to this box, as I promised and started off just so, as your mother would like things to be just so, I instead have unwrapped it and it is in my mouth.

As I darned socks for your father, I prayed for your father and for Charles to have dry feet. Same with securing a button. It was the like the roundness of the rosary bead, rounding the world, eternally transporting me in time through our Blessed Lady, who is that astringent, who scrubs and polishes and removes deception. For a better gloss, even if my sweat again was added to it. Glory be to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit: World without end, Amen.

The rubbings I applied to the cloth, first with such fear of ruination. But I believed Maria: chemicals must not be used in such quantities that they do away with the work of rubbing...the chemicals loosen the dirt, but I still must apply arms, twist my hands with the cloth, and rinse the fabrics, to near joy and with song. Now, Maria didn't say I had to sing, but it was moving along better and I noticed that I was using less and less chemicals as I was getting to the stains more quickly, and even finding myself spitting on top of the stain and chemical zest to let the awful ugly thing know that I was going to win.

Next in line is Father's recovery. Send only good news to him, Sister. But I now have an entirely new cross. In the end, Esther moody. Father at last saw it in her. She wandered off, looking for two waif children, claiming to be her set of twins. Tried to convince Father that it was temporary. Failed at that.

Yes, I saw your face then and I see it now. Could we be instruments for her? Could we be more shiny?

There was a call for these men to be of a certain weight and height, so as to fit the equipment, of course, but they had to dismiss those men who had bad eyes, heart, lungs, limbs, nervous systems, and no intellectual ability for top performance when on a moving train in poor weather and with bad lighting.

I imagined it to be possible, a place where there were fewer visitors, no mounds of laundry, no yelling through the hallways, lists of chores, and distractions, and where there could be open fields, slow conversations, and an occasional lazy swing to pass time on, to talk to Charles on, however he liked, and even to confess there, back and forth, back and forth, with some rhythm.

“You just cannot imagine the snow and isolation when you are on a farm. Why, there is not one interesting person to talk to, no one with a brain or desire for travel, to lift one’s outlook. There is nothing to do or say when you are looking at rows and rows of wheat stumps. No access to the arts or pills. Drudgery! Mediocrity!”

With the physician there to assist, maybe even with the wings of an angel. I imagined that Charles got his rest.

I imagined Cunningham's wife seeing how Val led away the neglected horse by the reins; at least the horse would eat and could recover as it was its nature to love himself, the horse, that is. And the wife must have been satisfied that the horse was going to be filled and brushed by Val as he waited for Cunningham to turn over.

She said, “We are from noble Knickerbocker stock. The kind that can track the line to worth and character, the line of purity for not its race but its systems of prudence, temperance, and innovation that elevates entire villages from illiteracy and gambling." And she said something else, probably about how her new mansion was coming to shape and how it would improve or keep up this side of Clinton.

But I went soft. I imagined Charles ran a gauntlet of decisions with flames licking his rushing heels. For me that night, what energy ripped through me, trying to fall asleep with my rosary, I began to slip away from the life of Christ and turned to the mysteries of the world.

Miss Dawson was now your mother’s sister-in-law, but the letters had a frosty gloss or duplicity between them, as these things happen, because a downturn in correspondence shows up in every relationship from afar, your mother said, and I agree, for it cannot be sustained if only for the demands of the chores in the garden and porch steps, which need sweeping. But let not that happen to us, okay, Stewart?

Your mother taught me that daily here is the task: “Minnie,” she used to say, “just wrap the gift. They can always return it, but our part is over.” How anyone takes it or not is of no concern to us, she used to say. How many gifts from her was I in charge of wrapping, and I, without bitterness, perhaps finally now without bitterness, I can accept this to be my last gift as we part—the end of the line is near for me.

The steam locomotive was in front of the postal car. Occasionally some of its smoke entered the car, if there was a twist in the winds, which was a black blessing, I suppose, for it reminded me to cover my eyes and nose, which hid my face from every angle, for I still worried my boss could see though the windows and I would be found out, even though we were far from that place, I imagined the cloud was voicing its disapproval ever-over me, crawling under my hat, harassing my scalp and the base of my neck.

Just before we turned on the landing to descend the open stairs, I held onto the wood to keep my balance, and clinging to that wood, I felt a grounding, but of course, we were over that balcony above the lunch tables and piano, which were empty of life as I saw in a blur a fight scene on the porch kick up dust and the crowd gathered there. Then I remembered! And exclaimed, “Mother!”

I held my breath. Drowned my head, saying those only pulsing, orienting constants in my life-three Hail Marys and one Glory Be--that I keep time with so I knew how long a minute would be…

There was a second grace—through these letters I was able to get to know her, too, and she asked me about my kin, and about the veterans in my family, and how I came to America, and our shared love of the Virgin Mary, and for liturgy and we began a sisterhood, also, with affection for our arrangements, washing, and routines.

Charles jumped a bit towards me and patted my shoulder, dragged me running up and down the spiral steps, above the kitchen, showing me my quarters, nearly causing me to get sick, and then he took off for an errand. I turned my body, but kept my feet in place, hoping to follow him, ducking a bit to see out the window, which still had no draperies. I saw him helping the movers. They acted like they knew him and knew him well, which comforted me, and I smiled from that moment on.

Did I mention that I was still dressed as a railway postal clerk? Your mother circled around me one last time, landing again on my hair. She heard his appeal. They were both locked in a performance. I smiled wide. My adoration for her, for the two of them, began.