The heat is unbearable and no matter how hard I try I can not drift off to the pleasant world of peaceful sleep, hence why I am writing to you at what I believe to be around 3am.
It is peculiar to miss someone I have never met but I do. I wish to meet you Grace, I truly do, to hold your hand, to find out why your name is held so highly in Mother and Father’s heart. I asked once, you know, and learnt never to ask again: I received no response but sometimes silence speaks louder than words. Mother did not speak at all that evening and looked on the verge of tears, while father became strict and harsh.
I never uttered a word about you again though nevertheless I wondered about you- a cacophony of thoughts trying to piece together a long-lost history. I could only ever come up with one rather morbid solution. That you had joined the symphonies of the dead, a hymn that is never forgotten but never really there. I wish to know what you meant to mother- why there is a portrait of you, Grace, hanging by the window looking out to the garden in my room. I was told once, an awfully long time ago, that I look very much like you. Personally though, I do not see it. If only I looked like you…
Dawn is beginning to come now, and I haven’t had one wink of sleep, so I am going to have to say goodbye to you, wherever you are!
