Rendered Mute



Today I received an email from a reader who had recently signed up for Linda’s Letters. There she told me that she hadn’t received any: what could she do to rectify the situation? I was ashamed to explain to her that she hadn’t been left off the list—the reason for the omission was simply that I hadn’t written “a newsletter” in nearly eight months.

I have been an author faithful to my passion for nearly fifty years, since my graduation from college. I have created and posted, perhaps three hundred of Linda’s Letters, formerly called Linda’s Newsletter. (Maybe more–I haven’t counted.)

But since September, when my older son committed suicide, I have not posted even one. I was rendered speechless by his death, devastated beyond words. I entered a period of mourning that banished my ability to do that.

At the time he died, many of you wrote to me to tell me how sorry you were for my loss. Your emails were often appended to the elegy I wrote to him (My Boy, Alexander), which was my last missive to you, and which began the period of being rendered mute. They were always fresh from your heart. I cannot tell you how much these thoughtful letters and notes meant to me.

In the beginning, I tried to answer them all, but soon there were too many even to count. It grieved me to give up the idea of not reaching back to each of you. I was deluged also by similar letters and emails from friends near and far. I struggled to manage answers to them as well.

In the end, the friends closest to me advised that no one expected a response at such a time of loss. I gave up, trusting that you would know how much your expressions of compassion affected me. I hope you do. I hope you will take this “Letter” from my heart as that thank you, however broad it may be.

But now, I want to acknowledge to my readers—some long-standing and some brand-new—that I treasured your willingness to reach out. I’m not sure when I will write another of Linda’s Letters, though I hope it will be at the wind-up of May, which is the last of our spring here in Maryland. I know you will understand if I am late in posting–or even if I am unable to do so—as Alexander’s death continues to haunt me. Even now, to type his name brings on a storm of tears.

When will this terrible grieving subside? Perhaps it will lessen as the months, or years, march forward—but surely it will be a long time before I am able to stop crying. Maybe never. But I expect that the intense intervals between the thunderstorms of my mourning will grow.

So, thank you all for being there—and here—for me. You comforted beyond measure and for that I am grateful. 

Yours, always,