My dearest Stella Rose,
If you should ever find yourself reading this letter, I wanted to say that it is best read when accompanied by the classical musical piece titled Clair De Lune. If you can find the version by Michael Dulin, then you will be listening to the exact same version I was while writing this letter.
I am not sure the extent or depth of these letters, or the content, but I feel certain the desire to write them. There is so much more I want to tell you. Our daily conversations about food and creatures and stuff we're going to build can only take us so far. I can feel the days shortening as you grow older, as your primal need for me diminishes, and these sobering truths makes writing to you seem even more important. There are experiences and ideas and adventures and stories and beliefs I'd like you to know about when you're older, and the truth is, I don't trust my memory or my longevity. In case I die young, kiddo, at least we'll have these letters.
I am thirty-three years old at the moment of this writing. You are four.
For breakfast you had a donut with sprinkles on top. You and your brother and I went to the bakery as soon as you both woke up, because it's Mother's Day, and I knew the only gift your Mother needed was uninterrupted sleep. We also went to the bakery because your Mother loves donuts filled with fluffy white cream, which is hard to find these days. Everything is bavarian cream filled, which is just a fancy word for pudding.
For dinner, you ate a whole avocado.
In slices, you told me.
Not all mushed up together. So I can eat it with a fork.
You've always been good with words, always able to articulate exactly what you want. This is a gift directly from your Mom. Make no mistake about it.
We are living in Downtown Indianapolis. On Fletcher Avenue in Fountain Square, between Shelby and State. Some days I know exactly why we are here and other days I'm not so sure. It's complicated my dear.
The short answer is that we wanted to fix up an old house and we wanted to live by my family while you and Leo were still young. This is the surface truth of the matter. I think our move really has to do with your sister. After nearly two years of grief and sadness and two pregnancies, we needed a break from our lives in California. We needed to move out of the home where she died. I can see this now, more clearly, after living here for five months.
I think that is all for now.
I LOVE YOU.