Dear Cyndy,

Thank you very much for your affectionate inquiry. I myself feel
much happier than I deserve to be, quite content to be (left) alone 
in this very large and very shabby house. I think of Margaret 
almost continuously during the day and during those hours of the
night when I'm not fast asleep, without pain and without sorrow,
but with a profound gratitude for the opportunity to have loved
her for 69 years; it's too late now to stop and it appears that
my love will persist as a form of insanity for the days, weeks, 
months or years remaining.

Margaret's death has been much harder for Klemens than for myself,
and he cancelled the memorial gathering about two weeks before it
was to occur, ostensibly because of distress over the sibling
rivalry between Nathaniel and Leah (the youngest grandchild)
which made Thanksgiving a nightmare for him. Nathaniel spent
two nights in this unheated house with me because Leah was
worse than the cold; now that she's back at Yale, Nathaniel
has returned next door where it's warm, and the family turmoil 
has subsided.

Margaret's side of the family is in even greater distress, 
specifically her 89 year old sister Janet, who is at odds
with her daughter Ann, her older son Thomas, and with Dana,
the wife of the younger son Peter. Janet spent much time 
visiting Margaret in the final months, and one of Margaret's 
last semi-rational comments to me was: "We're being assaulted 
by an attack cat." My inference that she meant Janet is of 
course invidious. Janet's unusual intelligence and my unquenchable 
Samaritan instinct make me quite fond of her, and I consider it a 
blessing that Janet dislikes me very much; but Janet is unwisely 
determined to sell her house in Sharon MA, she doesn't know where 
she will go, this house has eight empty bedrooms and the end is 
not yet in sight.

Meanwhile my brother-in-law Alex wants a Memorial gathering, -
I refer to a gathering rather than a "Service" because I consider
a service where God is considered a nuisance or worse to be
blasphemy. Alex thinks Shakespeare was wrong when he wrote:
"Nay, if you read this line, remember not the hand that writ it/
For I love you so that I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,
if thinking on me then will make you woe." I, of course, think
Shakespeare was right on the button, and have no interest in 
ceremonies of any kind. Klemens feels under pressure, and I 
told him, that he could hide behind my monumental stubbornness.
My soul has a toggle switch which I can flip on or off. I can
anticipate a memorial gathering as an occasion to be sonnetized.
But if Klemens doesn't want it, I will assert my prerogative
as mourner-in-chief to scuttle anything on the drawing board.

My sonnet collection has swelled to 35 items, I've discovered to
my surprise and pleasure that in writing a poem I can express
ideas and experiences which could not otherwise see the light
of day; and I hope very much to be able to continue. Now I
will go to bed and think about the autumn of 1949 when I was
in graduate school in comparative literature, washing dishes
at 113 Lakeview Avenue (a.k.a Seeblickstraße in the sonnets)
going to bed hungry because excess food was fed to Brandy,
the pregnant bitch, telling the three fatherless boys it was
not good manners to dive under the diningroom table to grab
each others' testicles, - they resented that, and two of them
would attend the memorial gathering if it came to pass. I won't
remind them. The household was that of Margaret's recently 
widowed aunt Priscilla Bartol Grace, who did not like me,  
but who liked Margaret and provided her with a room next to mine 
in the attic where we could spend the night together unsupervised - 
and did. Lots more sonnet fodder.

My best to you and Ned. Good night, and with such love
as is appropriate.

Jochen