Dearest brother,
At your humblest request, I have sanctioned an hour of time to write to you before bed- a feat of which I know not if I am capable. Never so good with words as you, or as Father. Still, I shall try...
Not but a day has passed and already your presence is a missing piece amongst us all. I have concealed in this letter a posy that I found the day of your departure- it will have likely dried when this arrives to France. I continue to ruminate on your words of Lord Hamlet, your warning well echoed Father after you left. He does not opt to trust the young prince himself... I wonder though? Has Lord Hamlet shown you but any sign of disdain or ill will in the past? Our conversations past have suggested so little, with regards to he and I. I know him but little as well, and still I feel I understand. Deeply and madly even. He must lament in the death of his father now- I envy that a bit, our mother long gone and little grief I feel in my heart. You knew her more than I- do you ache in her passing, as Lord Hamlet must his with his father's? I am being silly. I know you would say so. I have resigned myself to Father's words and agreed to keep my distance from the young lord in the meantime. "Acting like a green girl," he says of me, claiming that I must but understand the willful intentions that all young men have in their hearts. He says I do not acknowledge the value of my own person and virgin state in my own intentions. Perhaps I do not understand the intentions of men and act in my own ignorance. Perhaps I do, but see better in Lord Hamlet still.
Perhaps is very hopeful, is it not.
Affectionately,
Ophelia.
YOU ARE READING
Letters to Laertes
Romance"Yet I am his fool: I think for nothing, do I not? Is that not what he assumes? Or what Father assumes? Or what everyone assumes?"
