2022-08-24 - Letters Through Time

Dear Una,

My mother, as I expect you have already determined, died shortly after my birth. On the occasion of my fifteenth birthday, my grandmother, Irene, presented me with a letter not dissimilar to this one: a time-travelling missive, as it were, reaching forward from the past to provide context to the present. My mother, of course, knew neither my gender nor my face when she wrote hers— indeed, she believed me to be a boy, for how else would the Irving line continue?

And yet, of course, it has.

I will not go into the details of what Millie wrote, for most of it was for my eyes alone. I will tell you that she foretold your arrival to me: that there would be, one day, a redheaded Irving woman who would inherit the family fortunes and release us from our curse. At fifteen, I found that romantic; at eighty, it just makes me feel tired. I had hoped that it would be my daughter, but try as I might, I never could see so much as a hint of red in your mother's dark baby curls.

I cannot express how much I hated knowing that not only would my child grow up lonely, but that hers would, too. I hope and pray that you know better than I do what is entailed in breaking the family curse; I hope, perhaps full of wishful thinking, that perhaps you have already done so. Millie believed it would be so, though I cannot pretend to understand how she knew.

I regret that I never knew you. It had to be that way, for my mother insisted you needed to know nothing of our family history. When your mother fled, I resisted the urge to chase her down and bring her back— I regret that, too. I was afraid I wouldn't be strong enough to keep quiet, and in doing so, I fear I may have further enhanced the curse: for you, for Lara, and for myself as well. Millie promised me you would not be lonely always, and I have clung to that.

And now it is time for me to go, and for you to return. Three nights, I have had Dreams, more intense and more vibrant than any I have had since my youth. There's a storm coming, and after that, a fragile peace that will be broken again; or so my Dreams seem to insist, in tangled metaphor and occasional verse. My arrangements are made: when the storm passes I will be long gone, and it will be your turn.

In the enclosed notebooks, I've written down as much as I know of our family— of the Irvings, and of those men who have contributed genetic material, if not their time and attention. Your father is an exception: Lara never named him, nor could I make a guess. Otherwise, I have cleaned up the remains of my life as best I can.

Irvings have lived at 5 Oak for a hundred years, and in Gray Harbor since the very beginning. Don't let that trap you: if the time comes to leave, please do not let the weight of history hold you.

I wish you ever happiness, and offer, too, every apology.

Your grandmother,

Cassandra