Tonight a letter from the East Coast reached me. If it’s real, then Grian finally took the lad and brought him over to the Americas. He should be thirteen by now. Just a couple of years and he’ll be a man.But I won’t see that happening. Right now I’m stuck at the other end of the country. Coming here had been hard enough way back then. The snows in the mountain, all sorts of wild animals, not even mentioning the hunger once food runs low. God knows I’ve seen more than my share of hungering…

When people were going west to find a place for themselves and possibly start digging for some gold, they were all happy and good spirited to go there. The worst they could think of is a few Indians trying to protect the lands the white man was ripping from their dead bodies bit by bit. But now this land has known war between brothers.

So no matter how much I’d like to see what has become of Luke, I won’t be getting my chance. Nor would he even recognize his old pa. I hope that she raised him well.

It’s the third letter she sent to me ever since I left. The first one was all heartfelt, warm, full of her longing. The thing you’d expect a lover to write. I returned her lines in kind as best I could, though she’s always humbled me in the proper using of words.

The second letter read differently. Still warm, still longing, but also from some sort of distance other than the ocean between us. From what I gather she must have sent others in between. Those never reached me. Judging by her lines nor did my answer reach her.

And now there’s this third one. The thing reads like a very tired goodbye, as if she’s recently run out of breath to sustain her love for me. Question is – what should a good husband reply? Considering the circumstance…