My Dearest Ginevra,
I guess you could say today was one of those ‘get out of bed and hope for the best’ days. That’s how my morning started at least. Mother came over to watch the children. Of course, I wasn’t actually aware they needed to be watched, but then again, I wasn’t aware Father had signed me up for a counseling session. I guess the blame lies squarely on my shoulders. So, to the doctor I went, kicking and screaming, naturally. She fed me a bunch of shite about mental healing and whatnot. I know you don’t believe it polite to do as such; however, I began to tune out around prescription potions. To think, that kneazle-brained, Hufflepuff twit thinks I am in need of mind altering potions.
After the session I was accosted by your family and made to take part in the weekly Weasley rituals. I don’t know how I ever make it through Sunday brunches at the Burrow. Your father just pats me on the shoulder and gives me one of his ‘I know how you're feeling’ forlorn looks of despair. Your mother pulls me into one of her bone-crushing hugs while at the same time asking how I was feeling today. I always reply with the tight-lipped, “I’m fine,” to which I receive yet another pat on the back from your father, and a bit of watery eyes from your mother. It’s enough to make Merlin himself run out of the house screaming. We all can’t be as strong as I am, though. I am beyond blaming others for their shortcomings. Mother and Father were at the Burrow this Sunday as well. You would be rather surprised to see how pleasantly they have begun to get along.
Mother brought the children with her and I don’t recall ever feeling more at ease to see them. I’m afraid I have become quite overprotective when it comes to them. Could you blame me though? Lillian's holding up rather well, or at least that is the side she shows to everybody. She is so much like her father, it’s almost scary. I wake every morning and listen for Asher’s tiny feet running down the corridor, trying to reach my door before Lillian catches him and scolds him for disturbing 'Da'. You’ll be pleased to note that although he is very much in my own likeness, his character bears no resemblance to mine. He is, without a doubt, his mother’s son. It hurts when I think about how much he will miss with your absence.
I wish everyone would just leave me alone sometimes. It’s not like I’m lying in bed crying and whatnot. I try and forget the pounding in my head as I look over at your side of the bed only to find it bare again. It hurts more and more because I can almost feel you in my dreams. They seem so real. I can feel your hair tickling my stomach as you lay your head on my chest. I can feel your breath on my lips as you close your eyes and drift off. Then, blindingly, cruel reality sets in, and I open my eyes to find myself once again alone, in a bed that you picked out, in a room that you so lovingly decorated. The worst of it is reliving that tiny moment where I once again believed that you were here. It is in these moments where I wish I could make the world go away. I wish death would come and end my misery. Never in my life before you would I have ever imagined feeling this way. I was always taught that fear was a shameful emotion. If it is true, then ashamed is what I am. Each night I am afraid to close my eyes, afraid that I will slip into my dreams of you. What’s worse is my fear of the morning, when you will be ripped away from my dream world with the dawning of a new day.
I guess you could say today was one of those ‘get out of bed and hope for the best’ days. That’s how my morning started at least. Mother came over to watch the children. Of course, I wasn’t actually aware they needed to be watched, but then again, I wasn’t aware Father had signed me up for a counseling session. I guess the blame lies squarely on my shoulders. So, to the doctor I went, kicking and screaming, naturally. She fed me a bunch of shite about mental healing and whatnot. I know you don’t believe it polite to do as such; however, I began to tune out around prescription potions. To think, that kneazle-brained, Hufflepuff twit thinks I am in need of mind altering potions.
After the session I was accosted by your family and made to take part in the weekly Weasley rituals. I don’t know how I ever make it through Sunday brunches at the Burrow. Your father just pats me on the shoulder and gives me one of his ‘I know how you're feeling’ forlorn looks of despair. Your mother pulls me into one of her bone-crushing hugs while at the same time asking how I was feeling today. I always reply with the tight-lipped, “I’m fine,” to which I receive yet another pat on the back from your father, and a bit of watery eyes from your mother. It’s enough to make Merlin himself run out of the house screaming. We all can’t be as strong as I am, though. I am beyond blaming others for their shortcomings. Mother and Father were at the Burrow this Sunday as well. You would be rather surprised to see how pleasantly they have begun to get along.
Mother brought the children with her and I don’t recall ever feeling more at ease to see them. I’m afraid I have become quite overprotective when it comes to them. Could you blame me though? Lillian's holding up rather well, or at least that is the side she shows to everybody. She is so much like her father, it’s almost scary. I wake every morning and listen for Asher’s tiny feet running down the corridor, trying to reach my door before Lillian catches him and scolds him for disturbing 'Da'. You’ll be pleased to note that although he is very much in my own likeness, his character bears no resemblance to mine. He is, without a doubt, his mother’s son. It hurts when I think about how much he will miss with your absence.
I wish everyone would just leave me alone sometimes. It’s not like I’m lying in bed crying and whatnot. I try and forget the pounding in my head as I look over at your side of the bed only to find it bare again. It hurts more and more because I can almost feel you in my dreams. They seem so real. I can feel your hair tickling my stomach as you lay your head on my chest. I can feel your breath on my lips as you close your eyes and drift off. Then, blindingly, cruel reality sets in, and I open my eyes to find myself once again alone, in a bed that you picked out, in a room that you so lovingly decorated. The worst of it is reliving that tiny moment where I once again believed that you were here. It is in these moments where I wish I could make the world go away. I wish death would come and end my misery. Never in my life before you would I have ever imagined feeling this way. I was always taught that fear was a shameful emotion. If it is true, then ashamed is what I am. Each night I am afraid to close my eyes, afraid that I will slip into my dreams of you. What’s worse is my fear of the morning, when you will be ripped away from my dream world with the dawning of a new day.
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