Page 58 of The Correspondent

There’s something I need todisclose admit to youtell you

I have a confession (never saw the value in telling you)

(What good would it do for you to know?)

I was to blameYou said there was nothing to blame, but I was to blame

You have a right to know that

You were right to blame me because what happened is

What troubles me most about losing you islosingknowing you are the last person whoholds myshares my memories of Gilbert knows who I was, what I was always trying to do

who I was doing my best to be. But I have to tell you something

There were times I hated you, but it was always I

I have hated myself, and that was what it was

You loved me

I did my bestI tried so hard to be a good mother, good citizen, good in work, good wife, but missed the mark each time. You deserve to know that when we were at Lake Saint-Pierre

Not that we have spoken much, but it seems you’re the only person on this earth who knows me and knowing you are thereis a comforthas been a comfort a great comfort and I will miss that. The things only you knew—who else will keep my memories and my stones when you are gone? But there is something you don’t know

The stone I didn’t tell you, I must

There is a massive behemoth wrecking stone I TOLD HIM TO

Idid not grievewas primarily concerned with self-flagellation,

a guilt that plagues me now, even as I write

So you see, my grief was compounded by my culpability

By the time our marriagewas endingended I wasn’t in love with you anymore, but I have always loved you.

Daan, I owe you a debt for drawing close to Fiona and Bruce when I was unable. You are very good to have done thatfor themfor me

You are a good man, a good father

At the end of things, when you left for Belgium I didn’t wonder—by that time I wasn’t in love with you—but you left my parents gave me away you walked away from me and with

But if you had known, I’ve always wondered if it would havesaved us our marriageour life SAVED our life

Of course I can’t send the letter I want to send. What I want to say I cannot say. I know that, even if I wrote a letter a thousand miles long it would not be able express the universe of the human soul—my soul THE LETTERS pages and pages to what end? I cannot say. I am asking myself to what end. It doesn’t amount to anything at all, they are nothing, only paper with my scrawling endless, butit’s the way Ithat has been the manner by which Imake meaning, I supposewriting the letters is how Ibut even still I even with all the writing I still don’t

I had my DNA tested, you would be surprised to learn

I am sorry. I am so, so very sorry

I am going blind, and it terrifies me. If I cannot see, what do I have?

You’re gone. I know I’ll see you soon.