Mother

My dearest countryfolk,

The beauty of Spring-time almost reconciles me to the fact that I am a year older than I was the last time the ewes lactated. Regrettably, I have been infirm since the harvest. Doctor Graves says it is a case of hysteria, and would not even let the leeches prove him wrong. Perhaps he is correct. Sometimes I take cover in the larder when the children become too irksome. What am I, after all, if not old meat in need of preserving?

It should give me pleasure to say that the remainder of kith and kin are hale. The newest son, now a child of four years, has a habit of inciting grievous mischief. If he makes it to his fifth birth-day, we shall name him. Dear Granny said in her last days that the flames of hell spring from his head and set him to all manner of trouble. We continue to bring him to church, but it does no good. Thank heavens the children’s work on the farm has seen a decent yield, for their appetite requires much, especially the eldest girl. We are all praying that I do not have a change-of-life baby, for presently, we have all the mouths we can feed.

I have just sewn myself a new dress, but not in frivolity. The last one was so worn, I could only salvage it to patch Darren’s britches. As noon-time approaches, the goats have been milked, the chickens fed, the crabapples canned, and now it is on-to Supper. What is a woman without endless toil? Revered Obadiah says this question is unanswerable, and that I must live out my allotted days in a gratitude borne of terror for the future of my soul.

As a sword to a ploughshare, I have learned my place is low, which is not to say unexalted. For what can anyone know of this great earth if they are not firmly acquainted with the ground? Before long, we shall all be entirely in its cool, dark embrace. This, in truth, is the creed that allows me to carry on.

Your humble servant,

Mother