Devotedly Yours, (Incipit)
Hesdin, 6 July 1987
Dear Madame Pragé,
I am not really sure why I am writing this letter to you. I do not exactly know where to begin, though I suppose addressing my nescience of the reasoning behind the activity I am currently engaged in is as good a place as any.
What I am trying to say is simply... hello. I shall spare you the ridiculousness of asking how you are doing, though every fiber of my being desperately foolishly seeks a positive answer.
You only knew me as the carpenter and the schoolteacher's daughter. You knew me as the girl who had confessed her love to your son Pierre as he left for university when she was not seven years of age. You knew me as the majorette who always dropped her baton during the village festival. But now and forevermore, I shall always be known to you as Ève Delange, Jacques's girl. It feel strange to mention all of this. How should I be expected to care about the majorette parade when you are experiencing a grief so immense, beginning to understand it would consume me?
Delange... how loathsome must that name sound to you. It had always sounded melodious to me, protective even. Divine, though I had only claimed such a qualification after Sunday mass. Father Laroche's sermons had always been so illuminating, I think. I used to sit with my parents in the third pew from the back, squirming restlessly on the wooden bench in my scratchy sweaters and wrinkled skirts. Maman always forbade me from bringing my crayons and coloring book, though I know she meant well when she gave me such stern prohibitions. I think she wanted me to listen, to learn. She wanted me to be moved by a force greater than ourselves, and I think I was, on a few occasions, by much more than the promise of a wafer and a sip of wine. It was mostly on the days when Father Laroche spoke of Heaven and the place that was waiting for me up there. And for you, and Monsieur Pragé, and Maman, and Pierre, and P. What do did you think of these homilies? Did they bring you peace like they used to for me? I suppose these are some silly questions.
I cannot stop thinking about your husband's face, and you, standing next to him in your floral dresses and fine jewelry. Your family had always reminded me of the ones inked across the pages of my storybooks. The kinds that are pretty and perfect. I would watch you from behind at mass, admiring how you managed to keep everyone together with such grace. I wanted to be like you when I marry and start a family. I still do...
Maman told me what happened. I am very sorry for the loss of your husband and I think Papa is as well. I know that my words are inappropriate inadequate, that they cannot even begin to touch the depth of your pain, but I selfishly needed to reach out to you. I am probably the last person you wanted to hear from, the first being your beloved Yves. And also Pierre. I am very sorry for intruding upon your grief. I simply wanted you to know that I am thinking of you, and that my heart aches for the loss you have suffered.
Sincerely,
Ève Delange
PS: Please forgive the disjointed nature of my thoughts; I am still trying to make sense of everything myself.
THIS LETTER WAS NEVER SENT.
