Dear Hester Prynne,
I’m sorry, but I have to leave you here. I know. Things are unresolved. I don’t know what’s going to come of you and little Pearl. She’s so sweet, so lively. Such a mind of her own. I have a fuzzy idea of what happens, but it’s been a long time. I think it was freshman year with Mrs. Brown, who liked my reading of Captain Ahab (“That’s the spirit! Give him a voice!”) but didn’t like my spelling. We probably just had you abridged back then. They do that in schools sometimes.
Hey, that Arthur Dimmesdale better fess up. He does, doesn’t he? Letting you take all the blame. Standing there all sickly and devout. And what you ever saw in good old Roger Chillingworth I’ll never know. I mean it. I’ll probably never know.
Anyway, I just wanted to say that it’s not you. It’s me. I have a short attention span. That’s why I like poetry so much. Get in, get out. You seem like a very nice woman. You’re a gifted seamstress; we all know that. And man, you sure can keep a secret. At least so far. But it’s getting a bit draggy. (Not your fault. Not your fault.)
So, I wish you the best of luck. Keep your chin up. I might loan my copy out to someone, and then you’ll get to finish up.
Please count on my affection and support, at whatever distance,
Christine
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3 comments:
Perhaps the play or a movie might go down easier? There should be a special place for abandoned books, as there is for dead digital pets.
Ha! Told you it was a slog you didn't have to take.
As for "baby bunny" suggesting the movie? Ugh. Bad. Pass.
I can't believe you,
After all we've been through,
I have adultery,
You want poetry,
I'm slogging,
You're blogging,
My God doesn't like you
anymore.
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