It has been too long for which I am deeply sorry, as sorry as I am for what I write and equally shamed.
As I have said, winter started early and then dissipated itself. The young say that is the way of today's world. Grampy, in his state of confusion, mutters that it's a stain on nature brought about by man's sin. Lonzo grumbles that the cat is a stain howsoever caused. "We must kill it and attack it," he claims. Ma asks me, "Why attack it after you kilt it." Her jokes now are an irritation.
But those debates amongst your kin are not why I write. I can bear those slight weights alone.
I write because of my fear of spiders. I loathe to look upon them and I cannot kill them, let alone touch them. And then last night I awoke in a dream with a woman. The Lord says I should not tell this to any man and clear as heaven not my own flesh and blood but my mind has gone wild on me.
I awoke in a dream with a woman and my eyes were closed. When I opened them I gazed on a face as beautiful as the sun, the moon, the mountains, the sea, and all the things I have no words to capture. And her arms were about me and grasping me and rubbing me everywhere. How could she? How was her touch so supple, so omni present? And then I seen. I seen she had the face of all humanity but she also had the body of a spider. Arms and fat backside-I will writhe in utter distress if I try to describe it further.
I wrestled to free myself, to escape. But I could not. I could not and as I tried to push her or it away, her gruesome grip grew tighter. I could not breath. I could not move. And only as I exhausted myself did I awake in a bath of anxiety sweat. I staggered up off the bed as your Ma snored.
I reeled outside for cold, clean air. But the air is not cold and it is not clear. Where is winter I asked. The world is awry.
And, then I heard the cat growl, followed by a shriek. Boy, who will save us?
Trusting all is well with you, Your querulous, trembling, Father