Dear Jacqueline

Dearest Annalise,

I hope this letter finds you well. We’ve arrived in the city; I already find it exhaustingly tedious. The people are ruder, streets busier, prices higher. Pa says the move was necessary; that all business happens here and it’s better for us to be closer to it. Ma seems happier being near her friends and grandma. I’m happy to finally see her smiling again, and so I endure. I look forward to seeing you next summer.

Your dutiful cousin, Jackson

“What are you reading, love? Surely we haven’t been here long enough to begin receiving mail.” Mama Kim stood at the stove, stirring various liquids.

Jacqueline remained plastered to her seat. She reread the letter.

“Mama Kim, do you know an Annalise?”

Mama Kim paused, painting on her thinking face. “Hmm, Annalise. Annalise…, ah yes! Annalise Kettling, previous tenant. Horrid story, really. Poor thing drowned at the age of fourteen. It’s how your parents were able to snag the house so cheap.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Oh, dear, maybe five years back?”

Five years, meaning this letter was written long after she was gone. Why was this Jackson writing letters to a dead girl? Curiosity got the better of her.

“Mama Kim, please bring pen and paper once you’ve finished.” Jacqueline gave Mama Kim's shoulder a pat on the way out.

The maid arrived shortly, with paper and pen. Taking a seat, Jacqueline pressed the pen’s tip to the page. She blanked. How to start a letter to someone you have never met? What to write to someone who hasn't written you? Perplexed, Jacqueline strode to the window, vying to receive inspiration from nature. She looked over green fields, meadows of spring and sunshine. That seemed wrong given the weight of the letter. She pointed her gaze at grey cobble steps, steps that oozed solemnity and despair. The circumstances were saddening, but the boy was starting his life anew. That didn’t fit either. She averted her gaze to the river, its flowing purpose and adapting curves, moving forward and backward all at once. Perfect.

November 24, 1897

Dearest Jackson,

I thank you for finding time to write. Your words bring joy and brightness into my life. I’m pleased to hear Auntie & Uncle are finding their feet in the city. I know you are giving those city-slickers a run for their money! Keep your head high, cousin. I love and miss you all.

Your loving cousin, Annalise

Jacqueline asked Mama Kim to discreetly mail the letter; the maid knew how to be tactful. Jacqueline waited each day for a response. Would the boy be upset by her imitation? Would he think her a bad person for reading his private letter? She waited. Waited for wrath, bewilderment, hate. Her mind often drifted to the boy. She pondered his interests, his favorite foods, what he might look like, how he sounded. Over the days, her mind forged an image of him.

Eventually, an envelope slid under her door. The moment had come. Gingerly sliding the letter from its vessel, Jacqueline took a seat.

December 2, 1897

Dearest Annalise,

Simple words cannot convey the gratitude I hold for the gift you’ve given me. Annalise, my dearest cousin, passed suddenly five years ago. It would just so happen that I received your letter the very anniversary of her death. I could hear her voice in the words you wrote. My mother and father wept to read it. I would love, if you'd allow, in all your divinity, me to return the favor to you. Would you grant me the honor of knowing my holy benefactor's name?

Your devout follower, Jackson

Tears of relief slithered down her cheeks. Of everything she anticipated the past couple weeks, she had not dared dream of gratitude. Gratitude, he had written. Jacqueline had recently come of marrying age, so she had received suitors before, but none had ever spoken with such reverence. Her eyes scanned the letter again, catching on "your divinity" and "devout follower." Besotted with glee, Jacqueline called for pen and paper.

Two hours and many crumpled pages later, Jacqueline finally drafted a suitable response.

December 8, 1897

Dearest Jackson,

Please accept my deepest sympathies to you and your family. Though I've never had the pleasure to look upon your face, I still find you in my dreams at night and my prayers at dawn. Begging you not find me too forward; please consider your continued letters for the favor you wish to return. My heart would break to never again see ink laid by your hand.

Your humblest friend, Jacqueline

The waiting game began anew, but she did not fret the letter's reception as she had before. Instead, she pictured his face as he read her words; his eyes might water at her concern, his cheeks might burn at her flattery, his lips might curve into a smile at her name.

Finally, Jacqueline was called to retrieve a response from the postman herself. "The lad told me to personally deliver to your hands. Good chap, Jackson Kettling." To her delight the envelope was adorned, pink daisies drawn on front and back, a faint smell of lavender tingling her nose.

December 16, 1897

Dearest Jacqueline,

Just as petals fall from the flower, my troubles slip away at your words. If all the ink in the world were to dry, and all paper were to crumble, I'd chisel my thoughts to you on stone. I cannot continue allowing your imagination to insert another man into your mind, so I've included a picture of myself. My parents were thrilled I finally agreed to the portraits.

P.s. I'd heard an old wives tale once that said 'one may lose sleep at night when cast in another's dream.' I pray I do not keep you up too often.

Your cunning confidant, Jackson

Inside the envelope, a small white and black photo. Her imaginings had fallen short. A boy, approximately nineteen, nose strong and eyes striking. Hair so dark a raven would be envious. Beside him stood his parents. Handsome, just like their son, though they seemed a bit tired. Detached. The back read: 'Kettling Family, 1897.' A family portrait. She called for Mama Kim.

"I just don't understand the rush, Jackie. We’ve dozens of family portraits, dear." Jacqueline's mother stepped down from the carriage. She was a woman who did not mince words, never sparing one's feelings. Jacqueline loved and hated this about her.

"Mother, those are all at least five years old. I'm a woman now. Besides, I need one small enough to fit an envelope."

"Why?"

Jacqueline paused. She’d instructed Mama Kim not to tell her parents about the letters. She couldn't say she intended to send photographs of her family off to a stranger. Thinking quickly, Jacqueline replied, "You and Father are away so often, I'd like to keep with me for when I miss you." The smile that broke across her mother’s face was evidence of her successful ruse.

Jacqueline's father was a man of few words. She could recall on one hand the number of times they'd conversed more than a few sentences. Thus it came as a surprise when her father bent, whispering, "Good cover, darling. She doesn't suspect a thing," and gave a wink. What he lacked in conversation, he made up for in observation.

The photograph session lasted all evening. Jacqueline forced them into different positions, various poses. Eventually, she had a gorgeous picture that fit perfectly inside her pocketbook.

Paper and pen were already in her room upon their arrival home. Jacqueline wrote, detailing the portrait endeavor and including plenty of flattery towards his. She pressed a kiss onto the page, slipped the photograph into the envelope. The back read, 'Coal Family, 1897.'

December 27, 1897

Dearest Jacqueline,

I can welcome Death with open arms now I've looked upon your face. From your description, your mother and mine would get along swimmingly, though my father could undoubtedly talk the ear off yours. I extend my sincerest wishes to you and your family this holiday season, darling. I recently developed a cough, so my worry-wart mother and I spent Christmas evening with the local doctor. I'd be eternally grateful to remain in your thoughts and prayers.

Your snow angel, Jackson

Thus began their literary courtship. Jacqueline and Jackson learning each other, falling harder in love with each pen stroke.

He loved books and hated peas. She described her love of the harp. One letter detailed the death of his cousin, Annalise. They’d been playing in the lake behind the house. Jackson left just long enough for a drink of water. She was gone by the time he returned. He wrote of phantom screams in his sleep, screams he hadn't heard. Her body was dredged from the lake three days later.

Jackson began writing Annalise shortly after. First, he wrote apologies. If only I’d heard you and I should have never left. Eventually, sadness became rage. Why didn't you call? Why did you leave me here alone? As time went on, he began telling her of his life. He wrote about university, doctor visits, and the move. Then, a most beautiful soul entered his life, bringing meaning to his trauma. He said he couldn't wait to write to Annalise about the angel Jacqueline.

The days between letters were maddening. Could the post have lost them? Had they been stolen from the carrier? Could Jackson have realized the insanity of writing a girl he'd never met? These thoughts plagued every waiting period. Only when his parchment sat in front of her did they dissipate. Black ink, laid to white paper, adorned in pink flowers.

His next letter came with a request.

‘Jacqueline, darling, I long to witness your divinity in the flesh. Might we meet?’

They set the date to the 28th day of March and she devoted herself to finalizing the details.

But, exactly one week before their meeting, Jacqueline’s mother fell ill, and with her father away, it fell to Jacqueline to provide care. She sent her deepest regrets off to Jackson. The moment she so longed for, snatched away by Fate's greedy hand. The boy was more than understanding. He replied, 'It's probably for the best, darling. I must admit I haven't been in good health myself.

Her father returned, his presence kickstarting her mother’s recovery. The love between them was palpable; Jacqueline imagined Jackson and herself in their place. Would their union feel the same? Finally free and lighter of heart, Jacqueline penned to Jackson.

April 18, 1898

Dearest Jackson,

Blessed be, my mother's healing! Father returned last week to see to her care. Though she was weak and sickly, the love I saw burning in their could put the yellow god in our skies to shame. Do you dream of a love like that? Should you feel up to it, might we set another meeting date?

P.s. Not a day that passes where my mind does not linger on you.

Your fiercest supporter, Jacqueline

More days than usual passed before reply. Jacqueline anxiously twirled her hair, doubtful thoughts swirling. At night, she sat in her window staring at the moon. Jacqueline loved the moon. She loved that even after a night of darkness, it would always come back. As a young girl, Jacqueline would cry the night of a new moon.

"Why are you crying?" Her father stood in her doorway.

"The moon has left me, Daddy. Why?"

Her father took the seat beside her.

"Sometimes, we have to do things that separate us from the ones we love. Not because we love them any less, but because life sometimes needs living. We appreciate things more after we lose them, learning to love them harder when they return. As long as you love it, it will always be with you."

It was the most she had ever heard her father say. She didn't realize until much later that he was not talking about the moon.

Her mind finally eased when she found a white envelope on her writing desk.

May 1, 1898

Dearest Jacqueline,

I dream of a love so rich and pure my heart aches for it. I dream of a love so strong it threatens the frame of reality. At night, as my pillow engages in holy matrimony with my head, I dream of love from a girl who wrote me under another’s name. I dream of a girl so smart, so beautiful, so full of life. Yes, Jacqueline, I dream of a love like that, because I dream of you. If land and sea allow, would you bless me with your presence the 26th day of May? My body burns in anticipation of the moment it meets yours.

Your lover, Jackson

Jacqueline had never been on the receiving end of such prepossessing prose. She set out to confirm the details of her trip. She picked out her newest dress, a powder blue slip of fabric, tailored to fit her all the right ways. Her eyes batted at Sweeney the Coachman, and begged Mama Kim for her cosmetic skills. She asked Jackson not to write again until their meeting, so the next words from him might be heard. The day finally arrived, she laced her bodice, painted her lips.

Jacqueline arrived in the village square late morning. They had agreed to meet on a particular park bench at precisely noon. Jacqueline timed herself to arrive early. She daydreamed Jackson would walk into the square, his eyes darting around. She would be sitting, curls swaying delicately, hands folded neatly. Jackson would catch glimpse of her and think himself the luckiest man alive, to be the dying star orbiting in her galaxy. She imagined how they would spend the day, meandering, swapping stories and blazing glances. How as they parted, he would plant a kiss upon her cheek.

But, as often happens with dreams, it did not come to fruition. Jacqueline waited until noon. Then waited a bit longer. Jackson had still not shown.

Jacqueline's eyes had started drooping when Sweeney patted her shoulder gently, empathy and sorrow splashing his features. It was six o'clock, time to leave. Jackson had not shown. Jacqueline held onto her pride with ghost-white knuckles as she trekked back to the coach. She felt like a widow, solemnly walking away from the graveyard as her lovers' body sunk into the ground. She held that resolve until she sat in the coach, where she allowed her smile to fall and a single tear to slip out. Her imagination ran wild with reasons for his absence; a hare in the road, causing the car to swerve and flatten a tire. His carriage, drawn by a skittish horse who startled and broke its leg. Not once did it cross her mind as an intentional act.

Returning home, Jacqueline could not hide her melancholy. A shake of Mama Kim’s head said everything. No letter. She did not leave her room that night.

Two days later, Jacqueline's sadness hardened into resolve. She wrote, telling Jackson of her journey, the things she saw whilst waiting. She did not tell him how long she sat on that park bench, only asked if all was well. Each day she waited for the postman upon the steps, "Anything from the Kettling boy, sir?" Each day, he responded, "Not yet, Ms. Coal. I haven't even seen the lad." Excuses became the lubricant helping to turn the wheels of her mind. When her sprits sank, she played her harp, envisioning she plucked a heart, pulling its strings taunt and loose again. Nearly three weeks later, finally, a letter.

‘Dear Ms. Jacqueline Coal…’

Jacqueline stopped dead, the formal greeting shocking her core. Reluctantly, she read on.

June 15, 1898

Dear Ms. Jacqueline Coal,

I've begun this letter ten times these past weeks, but every word seems inadequate. This is not something I thought I would ever have to do. I hate to admit that I was apprehensive when Jackson showed us your first letter, the one where you imitated Annalise. The closure it wrought, bittersweet. It simultaneously signified the finality of her life and the fickleness of her death. That gift is what causes me to write to you, for a favor earned is a favor given. Jackson was found in his bed, the day of your arranged meeting. In his right hand your letters, in his left, a daisy. I can't begin to imagine the thoughts in his head as he took his final breaths, but I imagine they centered on you. It's criminal for young love to be snuffed out before ever beginning. Burying a son is something no mother should ever endure, but the hand I've been dealt is the one I must play. Please, Jacqueline, do not let this prevent you from loving again. I know that Jackson would only want to see you happy. If I might ask one thing of you, Jacqueline, would you play a song for him?

A sorrowful mother, Netta Kettling

You might picture Jacqueline with tears streaming down her face, pounding her fist on the floor. You'd be wrong. Without a trace of emotion, Jacqueline tenderly gathered herself up and padded over to her harp. She kept the letter within her line of vision, and took her seat at the strings. Closing her eyes, she saw his face again. She began playing. Her fingers moving with no particular rhyme or reason, she played the most beautiful song an ear could hear. Only then, in the height of her sonata, did she allow herself to cry. And when she did, her father’s wise words came to her again.

‘Sometimes, Jackie, we have to do things that separate us from the ones we love. Not because we love them any less, but because life sometimes needs living. We appreciate things more after we lose them, learning to love them harder when they return. As long as you love it, it will always be with you.’