Marie’s Letter

The day was, since the beginning of the morning, cloudy. From behind the shrouds the sun did its best, shining only a faint light onto the ground below. The earth radiated with coldness from the dreary hues. The trees did not sing, the grass sat quietly. The pleasant smell of petrichor had faded, leaving only dull air. Each breath felt tasteless, giving no life.

Marie arrived home from a slow day at school. From the moment she woke up that morning she was tired. It wasn’t the previous night; she slept well. It simply was one of those days. Her mind wandered in class, giving fickle attention to her teachers’ words. During their lunch break, her friends chattered joyfully as she tried to keep up with their cheer, but couldn’t. It was the type of day that she needed to wait to pass. The final hours ticked away like water dripping from a tap.

When she came home, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom, closing the door behind her and planting herself on her bed. She let her schoolbag fall to the floor and rest on her leg, placing her elbow on the windowsill. She looked out, seeing how the grey clouds marred the beautiful sky, faint drops of rain marking the other side of the windowpane. The cold air slipped in like a serpent through a small opening in the window, wrapping itself around Marie’s hand and cheek, licking her with the apathy of the outside world. 

Marie sighed. The clouds felt like they were falling onto her window, leaving their marks in streaks of water on the glass, dripping some of their wistful humour onto the schoolgirl. Apart from the distant rumbling of her mother cooking in the kitchen, everything was quiet. She felt like the world had been covered by a blanket of silence, weighing down on everything around her. From beneath its covers, she wanted to speak, to say something that would lift the wicked spell. She searched her lips, her mouth, her throat. A sadness overcame her. The silence had already spilt in, and trampled all sound inside. Even if she had the words, there was only her and the world to hear them. Who would listen to a solitary schoolgirl, sitting desolately at her bedroom windowsill?

Marie’s eyes fell down to the street below her window. It was a grey, suburban street littered with the occasional passersby. It would become more full when the work day came to an end and the cars started busying up the air, but until then there would be only the odd strangers. Any time one would pass along, Marie would follow them with her eyes, watching them like silent actors in a distant play, coming in and off the stage. They all walked slowly, giving the young girl time to inspect the clothes and expressions they wore. Most were dressed nicely, wearing jackets and coats to suit the weather. One man even had a light scarf, though it wasn’t nearly winter yet. Their faces all lied in a neutral comfort, that only because of the weather appeared to look unhappy. 

Watching these strangers made Marie aware of her own face. With the fingers that were cupping the cheek that rested in her palm, she started feeling her skin. She became aware of her eyes, sitting plainly as they watched the strangers outside; her brows, which arched with the shape she coloured them into that morning; and her lips, which despite her sullen spirit, were not disfigured into any sort of frown, but rather waited in the same manner as those of the faces outside to be stirred into motion. She realised that just like the strangers she was watching, her face bore a neutral expression. It made her wonder: are they really empty, walking along on such a quiet day, or are they feeling like me, watching the lives of others through a window as if they are only the spectators of a play?

It was no stranger in particular that gave Marie her idea. One walked by, then another, and Marie’s eyes opened with delighted realisation. She stood up from her bed, finding the desk at the other side of her bedroom. Under the desk there were numerous drawers; Marie opened the second one from the top. It was filled with rulers, erasers, pens and other stationary she didn’t use too much. Beneath it all was a stack of envelopes she had from when she used to write letters to her grandmother. She removed it, rustling some pens as she did. From the top drawer of her desk she took a single piece of blank paper and her favourite pen – a black and gold fountain pen, filled with black ink – and with everything in hand, she made her way back to the windowsill.

She assumed the position she had held before getting her stationary, resting her head on her right hand as she poised the pen in her left. She neatly placed it at the top of the page, where the dull sunlight reflected brightly on its surface. After a moment of confused consideration, she began writing with careful hand.

Hello stranger,

I hope this letter finds you well, whoever you are. I am writing this letter on a day that is dreary and grey. The clouds are sullen in the sky and they’re casting an unfair gloom on the world below them. 

I too am feeling gloomy today. I have looked out my window for the past while now and seen strangers very similar to myself walking up and down my street. I don’t know anything about them, but I thought that if they are anything like me, they too are saddened by the day above them. That is not fair, to them or to me. A day like this isn’t fair to anyone. It’s unfair to you too, stranger.

If you are a stranger walking down my street, or any street; or if you find yourself sitting somewhere, alone or with company; in a shack or a palace; and this gloom is casting its shadow on you, remember that within you there is infinite beauty and joy. There is beauty and joy in me too, but on days like this I find it difficult to see it. I can still see it in others, though. I can still see it in you.

I do not know you. Perhaps you are beautiful, perhaps others call you less than so. Perhaps you are thinking which of the two are true, and yearning for an answer. You can find many answers within you. Some will please you; others won’t. But here in this letter I will offer you an answer of my own. You can choose to do with it what you please.

I don’t know whether anybody is good or bad. I like to think that most of us realise that we are good; but some – maybe you, stranger – think they are bad. To the worst of the worst, I remind you: here, now, as you read these words, you have a choice. You can go from where you are, walking or sitting or standing, and regardless of the person you are or person you’ve been, you can do something good. Perhaps not grand, but still good. And if you, or me, or anybody lives from one moment to the next, and at every one has the opportunity to do something good, then we always have the option to become better – to become good ourselves. 

That is the beauty within you, and it never ends. That is the infinite beauty; and anything that contains infinite beauty must be beautiful itself, for how can it be anything other than so?

So the clouds cast down on you, but they do not bury you. You shine from beneath them. When they pass, you will still be glowing. You will illuminate a brighter day.

Regards,

A stranger herself.

Marie put her pen down on the windowsill, careful to place it so that it wouldn’t roll off. With quiet breaths, she blew on the ink on her page until it dried. Once she saw that the black letters lost the shine of freshness, she folded the page neatly into thirds, nestling it wonderfully into the envelope before sealing the parcel closed with her tongue. Turning the letter over, she found her pen again, and placing it in the middle of the open space neatly wrote the address.

To You.

As she lifted her pen, her attention was drawn away by her mother’s voice calling her from downstairs.

‘Marie!’ she said, ‘dinner’s ready!’

‘Coming!’ replied the schoolgirl. 

She gave the letter another look, then without another thought, she left it on the windowsill and ran downstairs, joining her mother in the kitchen.

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