Even More Letters

( To Tom Riddle )

( To Merriman Lyon )

( To Raven )

( To Bran Davies )

( To Nita Callahan )

( To Will Stanton )

( To Caspian )

3:47 AM, Tuesday, January 3

Important.

It's not a difficult word, really. Everyone knows what it means if a thing is important.

(I need to talk to you. it's important)

Except . . .

Except, like most adjectives, it doesn't really mean a thing, not in and of itself.

Good is only good until something is better.
Bad only bad till something is worse.
Great in time will give way to greater.
And terrible? You think you know what it means until there is something more terrible, and only then do you learn, and chances are, you'll learn again.

Shades of meaning, or a matter or perspective, or both.

After all, when, exactly, does warm become hot, or cool become cold?

(it's too cold out here for you to be without a cloak)

Adjectives, therefore, are not to be trusted.

Because if anything is certain (and Amy is not certain that anything is), it is that having the care of the stables is important to her brother.

(Nouns, like brother, are more steady than adjectives. Their meanings do not change so easily.)

And so it would seem to be impossible that he could have walked away and left the stable ledger lying forgotten in the snow.

(Impossible is a word Amy has not trusted for months now.)

And yet . . .

And yet, "forgotten in the snow" is exactly where Amy has found it, edges of the pages just beginning to crinkle and warp.

At the time he dropped it there, or rather, at the time he let it fall, she doubts he even noticed. Because it wasn't important.

(lady, I know not of what you speak)

Still isn't important, really.

Except that it is, because it has been, and will be again.

(I can only hope that Susan would understand)

And so, Amy is here, in the cold, with only a shawl thrown over her dress, in the middle of the night, fishing an unimportant book out of the snow, because it matters.