September 3, 1956
Mary,
The gate's nearly lost beneath the serpentine weeds. They twist around it, clawing up the fence, trying to reach you. I should clear them, but I don't have it in me. I can't blame them. If in their position, I would take any hold I could get to approach you.
I returned to this house expecting its familiar embrace, but it's all wrong now. The staircase an inch taller, the halls a foot wider.
How can I be gone and still here at the same time?
—Theodore
