The Diary and The Letter

 

 

 

 

 

 

"In our days, we will live like our ghosts will live"
"pitching glass at the cornfield crows, and folding clothes…"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 June X, 2010

Dear diary,

 

Testing, testing, Peter Paul and Mary. I am not sure if I will be able to get the hang of writing again, considering the way it feels. Maybe after a bit of practice. Lord knows I have all the time in the world to keep at it. Oh well, so far so good I suppose.

A- my name is Alice, I’m going to marry Artie, we’re going to sell apples, and live in Arkansas!
B- my name is Betty, I’m going to marry Bobby, we’re going to sell beans, and live in Brazil! 
C- my name is Connie, I’m going to marry Charlie, we’re going to sell cars, and live in California!

That is enough practice for now, I think. I’m going to go meet Charlie in the middle and tell him that it worked.

-M  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

June X+1, 2010

Dear diary,

 

I forgot to mention, Charlie was the nice guy who gave me the pen that I am now writing with. He sits over by the fence usually, but if we both combine our thirty paces allowed from our respective seats than we can meet. He’s one of the older old folks around, and I think he’s pretty cool. We got to talking the other day, and I told him about all the stuff that people had left with me when I came here. I guess when you’re young you get special treatment! I told him about the empty decorative notebook, and about how I wished that somebody thought to give me something to write with. He told me that he had been left with a pen on accident, and that he’d trade it for my baseball glove. I guess he used to play a little ball back in the day. When I gave it to him he just shoved his face in it and smelled it for a while like it was a flower. Kind of weird. But he’s nice. I’m sitting under a pretty nice tree right now too. It’s about as far as I can go towards the main gate. I can see a girl over there who is about my age, but she’s too far away to talk to. I wave to her sometimes but she never waves back. Maybe I’ll write her a letter. Anyway, I better get back to my seat. Grandpa Edward wants to play some chess. I’d want to play more if we had real pieces, I think.

Over and out!

-M

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

June X+5 or 6, 2010

Dear diary,

 

Sorry it’s been so long since I have written. You’d think that with so little else to do I’d be forced to write more often, but lately I’ve just been in the mood to stare at the trees. The leaves are growing really fast. Anyway, I finally beat grandpa in chess yesterday. My grandma and great grandma both clapped, and a few of their nearby friends did too. Agnes, of course, could care less. But she’s just an old grouch. I wish she wasn’t so close to the family. I want to play Charlie in chess but I don’t know if my grandpa would let me take his stuff over there. Not a lot of people talk to Charlie for some reason. Maybe because he’s so old, I don’t know, but he’s been kind of weird lately. Something seems off. I’m worried about him. I’ll walk over to talk to him sometimes, and he’ll make as though to get up, and just sit back down again like he’s tired. He still smiles, though.

Hey! We have a new arrival, some people just pulled in. Looks like they are setting whoever it is up just out of my zone, I hope it’s someone my age for a change. Won’t be able to tell who it is until everyone else leaves. I’ll let you know all about it when I know more, going to go talk to Mr. Peterson about it now, he can get closer than me.

-M

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

June or July, 2010

Dear diary,

 

SHE WAVED BACK!!!! I can’t believe it. I don’t know why, and it wasn’t much of a wave. She just sort of lifted her hand up in my direction while I was looking at her. I’m so excited! I think I might write her a letter now. I wonder if there is a way to get it to her without everyone reading it, if I can even get it to her at all. There aren’t very many people over there, in the old part of the place. I wonder how she lasted so long. More as it develops.

-M

-PS, the new guy is another old man. And he doesn’t seem to want to talk to anyone. BORING.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Probably July, 2010

Dear diary,

 

I wrote a letter to the girl on the other side of the yard, but it never made it to her. I knew the people passing it to her would read it, so I only asked pretty general questions. What’s your name? How old are you? That kind of thing. I folded it up and wrote "Please pass this to the young girl by the gate" on the top of it, but when it got a few people deep some guy took it, read it, and just stuck it in his pocket without passing it along. What an ass hole! Why would he do that? I’m going to try to write another one, with instructions not to hand it to that guy. We will see how it goes.

In other news, some kids came in last night and were "doing it" over towards the east end. All I could see from here was the crowd gathered around them over in the woodsy part. I think they had a blanket. I thought my grandparents would be upset about it but they were just as curious as everyone else. We only knew it was happening because word drifted back to us. After noticing the crowd, I saw Buddy the soldier talking to Mr. Peterson, and he came over and told us what was going on. Must have been quite a show. He even said that some people were kneeling down around them pretending to do it too. Weird I know! I wish they would come back and "do it" somewhere closer so I could watch.

Charlie doesn’t even answer me when I call his name anymore. He just sits there on his rock and looks straight ahead. I think my grandpa knows what’s going on but he won’t tell me. Oh well. If Charlie doesn’t want to be my friend anymore, fine. Screw him! He can keep that stupid baseball glove.

I’ll try writing another letter go the girl tomorrow.

-M

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Probably July +3, 2010

DEAR DIARY!! SUCCESS!!!

 

It worked! The old boys came through, with a little help from Buddy. I wrote the girl pretty much the same letter as before, but on top of it I added "and please do not give it to the man that hangs out on the big angel statue, since he stole the last one." I watched Buddy read it after Mr Peterson handed it to him, and he gave me a big "thumbs up" before walking off and handing it off to the next guy. You can always trust a soldier to accomplish a mission! It went through a few more hands, around the mean man by the statue, and was finally given directly to the girl herself by her friend in the white robes (I wonder why he is in robes, mostly everyone else is dressed up nice, or naked, or in some kind of uniform). I waved to both of them when he did, and they both waved back before reading it. Oh I hope she writes me back!

My grandpa said he thought it was pretty neat that I was able to get a letter all the way over there like that. It’s been an hour or so now and she still hasn’t sent me anything back. I wonder if she has something to write with. I guess I could pass my pen over there, but I bet someone along the way would just keep it. I don’t want to risk it. I’m going to go tell Charlie right away. Even though he has been weird and ignoring me, I bet he will want to hear about what I pulled off with his old pen!

So long for now!

-M

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

August or something who cares, 2010

Hey diary,

 

Well it’s been about a month since I’ve written. Sorry. I should probably get you caught up on some of the things that have happened. Charlie is gone. A few days after telling him about the girl and the letter I happened to look over and he was nowhere in sight. He wasn’t by the fence, he wasn’t sitting on his stone, and he wasn’t anywhere else in his little zone of space. Grandpa said that "it was just his time to move on." I asked him why, and he said that he didn’t know, but that he thought that it had something to do with other people. People he knew in his life. He said he thought that if there was someone out there that remembered you, you had to stay, but once everyone who remembered you was gone, it was just your time to move on. I think that’s stupid. I remembered Charlie. He was nice. He used to tell me about all the cool things he did in Chicago before the stock market crash. He shouldn’t have "moved on" if I was still thinking about him, right? I guess we don’t really count, not like normal people. Still, I miss Charlie. He was one of the few that actually smiled from time to time and made it not so bad here.

After Charlie left I tried hitting and kicking the gardener for the first time. I had seen others try it, but never until then had I any urge to do it myself. It was just how they described it. It was like kicking a stone wall, only without the pain…my foot would just stop where it connected with the man and would go no farther. I tried beating his head with my fists, but with the same results. I would swing them, and they would hit him, but there was no sensation. And he didn’t even budge or notice me, he just kept walking around, totally oblivious. I can see why if people do it, they don’t do it for long. It gets old pretty fast.

The girl has waved to me twice since, both times in the morning. I thought maybe she would send my letter back over with some kind of adjustments, but she must have wanted to keep it. I’ll have to send this pen over to her if I’m ever to expect her to write back, I think. I suppose I’ll give it a try, what else do I have to lose? Charlie won’t care if his pen goes missing now, since he’s gone. Oh well. If I don’t get the pen back, t

his will probably be my last diary entry. I hope that isn’t the case.

Until next time, or farewell, whichever the case.

-M

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Michael,

 

Thank you kindly for the letter, on whose back I am currently writing, and for your ambition in getting it to me. It has been some time since last I communicated with someone new, and the arrival of your words seems to have shattered the long age of stillness for which I have sat through many years. You ask how old I am, but I am afraid I can not tell you. It’s been a long time since I have counted the years, and the seasons roll by overhead like low storm clouds. Where the length of a minute was replaced by the length of an hour, and the length of an hour replaced by the length of a day, my years now move as swiftly as seconds, with little to mark the slipping passage of eons lost.

Therefore I can not tell you how old I am, for I do not know. What I do know, however, is that I was somewhere around the foolish age of sixteen when I departed the world by my own hand– a hand which also requested, prior to my departure, that I be laid to rest here with my twin sister, whom plague sent here shortly before me.

It was just her and I for a while, until our mother joined us, and soon after our father. Gone are they all now, long taken by the forgetfulness of the world, to whatever land awaits beyond this one. Yet I remain, dwelling in the sad irony of my unfortunate situation. To leave my father and mother behind in life, only for them to return the act in death, though I am certain it is not their fault. I do believe what is said; that we must linger here as long as there is someone still alive who yet remembers us. I have seen overwhelming evidence for such throughout my many years in this cemetery. Yet I am puzzled as to how I remain, while so many younger souls have passed before me.

That we can touch the world, but not move it, save for what we arrived with…and that we must remain very close to our earthly bodies, is as much of a mystery to me as it is to you. I wonder what becomes of those who are burned…if they they sail the breezes like dust, and are allowed to see all of the world, instead of only a tiny portion of it. Had I known then what I know now, I may have reconsidered my request to be laid here in this prison. But the comfort of family and other souls in similar circumstance was too great a vice to be foregone, and had I moved forward when by all rights I should have, it would not be among my considerations. But such is my penance. Punishment, perhaps, for taking my own life. As I mentioned, I do not know.

I should like to continue this correspondence, as I have much more to say, though no more room to write. I will hold onto the pen for now, and I humbly request that you pass some more paper over to me. Thank you, again, for stirring me from this languor.

 

With great love and appreciation,

Alice White