June 15th, 1913
Letter Seventy Two

Dear Walton,
The summer air has not yet been kissed by the sun. It is still cool outside, too cool to bathe in the clear waters of the pool. The trees are bright green and yellow. Their colors resemble the hues on my paintbrush.
My only friend this summer has been my paintbrush. That, and my loyal carton of watercolors. On nice days, I walk along the local terrain, painting the visions of mother nature.
I’ve spent much time outside lately. It makes me feel closer to you. After all, my memories of you are slipping.
As time continues, so does the strip of memories in my head. I think the strip of memories are becoming so long, that they are leaving my very skull.
I’m scared.
The only piece of you I have is a slip of paper you gave me last Summer.
It said, “I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life… -Thoreau.”
I’m afraid to suck any marrow out of life. After all, that’s what caused you to die.

Still thinking of you,
Anne Wright