Loneliness

I'm back.

It's hard for me to finish these letters carefully. When I wake up it pulls me away from the hands and I can't control them anymore. It seems to happen piece by piece, so the writing gets a little spotty at the end. I'm sorry if it gets confusing!

Today I was out sweeping the courtyard when Ennis came by. Ennis is a boy I used to play with when we were smaller. He is very intelligent and quick, and about three years older than me. He used to look out for me when all of us children had adventures - which is another way of saying getting into trouble.

About five years ago he had to go work with his father in the stables. Before I began working with my father, I used to go visit him there, though now I don't see him much at all. He would let me help feed and curry the horses, and sometimes we would talk if he had a moment. I always liked talking to him. He is very soft-spoken and full of life. He makes very funny jokes, but you have to listen carefully for them. It is easy to think him too serious, which he is not.

Today, when I saw him, I was shocked at how tall he had become. It was terrible; he came into the courtyard and I almost didn't recognize him until he said, "Hello, Neddeth," and then when I did I was overcome. All the old easiness was gone, and we stood awkwardly, he and I, talking about stupid things. Finally, he said he had to go back to work, and when he left I almost wept.

I do not have many friends, especially now I am spending so much time on Museum business. Ennis was a good one, and now I've lost him. It is especially hard as he was one of the few children who thought I was a happy person. It is easy, if someone is quiet and does not smile much, to think that person is too serious or even sour. My sister, who is much older than me and married now, is always telling me to smile. She says that if you smile at people they will do anything for you, but I feel uncomfortable pretending like that. Especially getting other people to do things for you.

I keep thinking about seeing him. It was so confusing!!!! I knew who he was, and remembered all our conversations, but I could not make the person standing beside me feel like the person who had said all those things, done all those things. The thought of that tall person carrying me across a creek now makes me blush.

I think sometimes my Hands - I mean the person who writes this for me - must feel much as I do, alone much of the time and sometimes lonely. Busy, though. I can see from the edges of the Hands' vision that their owner makes things. What kind of things, I don't know, but there is a table with things on it that is clearly a Making-table. I wonder if he or she longs for contact with others?

I can feel the beginnings of wakefulness. Goodb