News from Loretta

He decided that, like most women, Loretta wanted to be found. His wife had once told of her Irish great grandmother's rather intriguing philosophy, "a lady leaves no traces." The words held such a sense of mystery, much like a woman, he thought. A more active search for Loretta needed to be conducted.

Perhaps the problem was that Loretta's addressor still went by the name, ?. A most problematic scenario and, to him, an error no writer should make. A character does not take form without a name. Nobody does. Perhaps it was part of our ancient inheritance. In ancient Egypt, the general belief was that nothing existed without a name and that the one who named a thing was in total control of it. This thought suddenly struck a chord. He loved that feeling. Surely, there was no greater sense of achievement as when one comes to a meaningful realisation. He was convinced now more than ever that a writer's great pleasure was to play God. A writer, like any artist, imitates. Every scenario resonates in some way with reality. Even when a scenario does not necessarily depict anything realistic, it nevertheless imitates thought, feeling, action, inaction. A writer plays. A writer speaks without speaking, moves without moving, destroys without destroying, but a writer feels.

? needed a name and he had thought of one. He could not explain why certain names worked, but in this case, the name Henry did. It was short, yet carried much allure. Henry VIII, Oscar Wilde's Lord Harry Henry and countless French chefs were all called Henry. Henry would be the name of Loretta's addressor. And then, after many weeks of waiting, Loretta's letter arrived.

My Dearest Henry,

I apologise for my tardy response, but as you can imagine, my time has not been my own. A long drought was last night broken with the arrival of a monumental thunder storm. Though relief was to be felt by all, none of us slept a wink. The drought had very nearly transformed into a flood, but we managed to get to safety in the nick of time.

I do envy you your surroundings, but when I have a moment to collect my thoughts and assimilate the beauty of the desert plains and that of the approaching storm, I have to wonder whether you do not sometimes miss thunder and lightning. I feel as though they are so ingrained in our fibre that when we have not fraternised with them for a while, we grow sick with longing for them.

I sometimes fear that although we spoke of it a great deal, and I for the most part agreed with you, I am after all in love with this barren, exhaustive and utterly beautiful land. Though it is a tumultuous lover, I cannot entirely turn my back on it. Of course, I do not propose that desertion is what you have done. Not at all. In fact, I now realise that for you to love this place, you need distance from it. But I suspect that in some way, you will always be bound to it. I do not believe that we could truly undo what has been done.

Heavens, what a sombre tone! On to your crow. I so wish to see it in your new habitat. Please send me a picture upon improvement of your digital competence. You are absolutely right, a crow in decidedly crow-like surroundings, like the worlds we used to conjure, is a thrill I would find hard to describe, though neither of us ever cowered from a challenge of description.

Oh, Henry, if only one were able to live in multiple worlds at once, how much simpler life would be! I shall send news of my life and my future plans, but as I am sure you can imagine, duty calls.

I loved hearing from you.

Ever yours,

Lotte

He had always romanticised the idea of such friendships, which is perhaps the purpose of fiction and the world to which he so often retreated. Yet, life has taught him that such friendships are, for all their beauty and ideologies, short-lived. He wondered if Henry and Loretta would eventually grow apart.