The Loss of Time

Chapter 1

I wrote my first letter when I was eight. I sometimes look at it. Bad handwriting, spelling, and grammar. Scrawled on a piece of paper, my little self had said some private things I know not to say now.

Good thing I didn't send it.

My mother wishes I would write more. I gave the accident of letting her look at it. I would write, but my father refuses to let me touch his typewriter. When I explained my problem to her, she said to just write a letter to him, even though he lives with us.

She's a bit funny at times.

I still write letters, just not stories. My hand couldn't possibly handle that. Thomas Jefferson was elected when I was born. When I figured out what politics were, James Madison was elected. Many people think that Madison have a lot to stand up to.

Well, he has seven more years to prove himself! I'm thinkin' I want to help him stand out from the last three presidents. And perhaps that could work... if he listens to me.

Time to see.

Dear Mr. Madison,                                                                             Orange, Virginia, February 28th, 1810

Hello, I'm a mere citizen in the U.S.A. This may or may not surprise you--my class agreed that you're tall. And that you're wise. Really, it doesn't surprise me. But I don't matter, you do!

I like your friend Thomas Jefferson too. But you helped him win, I'm sure. My teacher said so. He really likes politics. Unfortunately, he says you are very short. Hahaha, my class raged on him

We all got in trouble, but it was worth it. Also, I was looking around in my home for something to read. I found The Federalist. I found that you wrote 29 of the essays! I couldn't think to write two!

You deserve a lot of credit. You realize that, correct? Oh well, I don't have much space to write... My advice: Be smart with your actions and what you say.

Alexander Hamilton can teach you that, I'm sure.

Best wishes,

Matilda Staindrop

Good, good. I folded the paper into thirds and slipped it into a new envelope. It's relatively short and easy advice, I thought. He'd listen to me. Definitely.

I asked my father if I could use the wax seal. He nodded, so I did. Quickly but nicely writing the address, I was bouncing in excitement. Slipped the letter in the mail, ready to know if he replied or not. In this case, not. Easy come, easy go, or how the saying goes.

As a reasonable child, I shrugged it off, decided he was busy, and moved on with my life. I practiced piano, like I always did. I was taught how to sew and how to thank God, quietly, that my father refused to have slaves.

"A man that refuses slavery is always a good man," my mother assured me one day. I had agreed, I always did. "A man that stays and feeds us is better than no man at all," she has also told me. My father always tells my mother her words are true.

He could be correct. He is a little rich, and he went to a successful school. I've never heard of it though. My father always is kind, he is always kind to my mother, he is always there for me, he is always ready to make the right choice, and he loves me as his youngest and only daughter.

Every Sunday evening we would write to my eldest brother. He had met a beautiful woman and had won her heart. He graduated college two years earlier, and every time he served as a duel's second, all men left alive and well.

We would also write to my youngest brother. He also met a beautiful woman, and she won his heart. "With sheer luck," he wrote in one of his letters from New York, "she required my love. I used the worth of my good lawyer to make her a divorce." My father was discouraged at the fact he married a divorced woman, but was assured she was rich.