Letters

By Lacheal Martin

Sitting before the fireplace, I stick my hands out near the
flames. Its warmth only provides so little, for my entire body
aches from breastfeeding. I look out the window near me, at
the chirping birds sweeping down from the blue sky and the
blooming sunflowers scattered across the front lawn. Despite
its beauty, nature doesn’t seem so cheerful; the wind whistles
around the window, mourning me.

Next to me, the little creature rocks in the cradle, playing
with a stuffed black bear. Every day, she resembles more like
her father; and it is difficult for me to stay upset with him
when she smiles and laughs like him. Sometimes, when she
is playing or dancing, she’d stop unexpectedly and smile at
me — reminding me of my love for her. But as much as I love
her, she fatigues me. Physicians say breastfeeding can drain energy,
and that mothers must rest — but how can I rest, with the
thoughts that keep me up at night? One of my sisters had once
suggested going to the park to calm my mind. It doesn’t seem
like a bad idea, considering the nice weather.
I smooth back my daughter’s hair with my hand, smiling.
She lowers the bear and her bright eyes meet mine.
“How about we go to the pa—”

The last time I was at the park, I ran into a pair of individuals
who criticized me for my opinions on women’s rights. Though
they did not scare me, the situation raised my concern about
my daughter’s future. It troubles me to think the world expects
her to grow up as an oppressed state — only to live to please.
Governed by her feelings, after a while, she will grow tired in
her prison. As her mother, it is my duty to steer her away from
that. To think of it again — I don’t want to go to the park. No
matter where I go, I am always met with displeasure.

I try to not let it get to me, but somehow, the feeling always
follows me. At first, I thought it was just temporary. But as the
weeks went on, and there was no letter from him, the feeling
worsened. The letters are the only things that could assure me
of his affections—but now that they are gone, I’m not sure what
to believe. I don’t think the little creature understands everything
that is happening, but I like to make her feel that everything
is alright.

I get up and slide my feet into my slippers. Then, I shuffle to
the desk in the corner of the room, where a stack of old letters
lay. I pull out a letter from the bottom — dated August of 1793.
Oh, I remember this. He and I had just left Paris and moved
to a small French town called “Neuilly-sur-Seine,” where we
were living together for a short while until he left.Four weeks
later, I received this letter.

Behind the desk, I pull out the chair and drag it to her.
Sitting down, my heart lurches as I unfold the letter and read:

12th Aug. 1793
My dear girl,
You have my entire affection. The day I visit you in Neuilly-sur-Seine, I will hold
you in my arms for eternity. When I am weary from traveling, I place you in the
center of my thoughts. You fill me with serenity and happiness, and though we have
only known each other for a year, my love for you is pure. Employment may have
separated me from you, but my heart remains always with you. Good-Night!
Yours,
Gilbert Imlay

Never in my life would I think to question the validity of such
words. It hurts to think about how times have changed. When
I write to him, I am only greeted with bitterness. On days
he visits us, every time I look at him, his mind is elsewhere.
At the dinner table, while the little creature fills me with joy
and laughter — I glance at him, and he is staring out the window.
Is he happier without us?

Slowly, I fold the letter and place it on a table. I look at the
gloomy walls of the home he had purchased for us. It is foolish
for me to believe his affections are still genuine, two years later.
Does my heart deserve to be tossed around like a puppet? It is
not right for a woman to depend on a man, who thinks that if
he indulges in alcohol and sleeps with a hundred women, she
will still welcome him home. I had welcomed him too many
times. I hate my love for him. It destroys and heals me; yet, I can
never control it.

Sometimes, I wish to get rid of the chains that bind me to
him. I tell him, he must decide — will we live together or forever
separated? I just needed to hear the words, and I will leave. I do
not want to be separated, but it seems like it is fate.

Lacheal Martin is an undergraduate student at the University of Maryland, College Park. She is an English major on the Literary and Cultural Studies track. While she enjoys writing papers and reading books, she is also interested in medicine and hopes to pursue a career in healthcare.