Continued, The Correspondent
We are having a white Christmas. I haven’t seen snow on Christmas in years, and this morning I woke up to a dusting and powdered sugar is coming down outside the window as I write. It’s really quite beautiful.
It was Enzo’s son after all, as I knew it was.
Somehow I knew it was Dezi. In some ways, I’ve been waiting for him all these years.
I could see it in his eyes that time he came to see me, that he would be back eventually.
He is angry with me, of course he is, but even all the time I was reading the lashing he sent me by mail, there was something in it I was wanting.
Something in it I was glad to receive, finally.
People assume a certain high morality of judges, but judges are merely people.
There were many decisions over which Guy and I agonized, and you know, you make a decision and you hope and pray it’s the right one—but you’re not God on high with the ability to see all things!
You’re human! The outcomes don’t exist yet.
But this case, Enzo’s case, was different.
This one—I knew we were wrong. Right away.
I knew we were wrong before it was decided.
I look in the mirror and how can it be? I am an old woman.
What has my life been, really? I’ll go blind, and then?
I wonder—the letters. All the letters. I wonder if all of it was a waste.
Pages and pages of letters. I wonder what has it all been, really.
I’ll go blind, and they will be nothing to me.
It will be as if they aren’t there, and does that mean, in a way, they were never there?
I’m not sure. Dezi said something to me.
He said there are complexities of human life that cannot be boiled down to black and white. Of course! Of course.