August 21, 1839
It's foolish.
He thought he had me trapped in that wooden box. He charished the box so, hid it carefully under the bed.
I don't know if I should laugh, or cry like I did then.
He'd started making preparations to leave again. The next day he would get back on a boat and sail to the other side of the earth.
But something was weighing him down, even more so than being exiled. It started as a light itch in his throat. Then a pain in the side of the stomach.
Would he end up like my body, limp on that cot?