Please, not another letter

I called out west on my lunch hour today to see how everyone was doing. Mama Bennett answered the phone.

I was pleasantly surprised.

Papa Bennett was out feeding the alpacas. Aunt Bee and Uncle Ell had gone out of town for an overnight break, and Aunt Ess had taken one of the dogs to the vet. Mama Bennett had the house to herself, and she was cooking dinner. I could almost smell it.

Mama B always cooked. Three meals a day. Everyday. She and Papa B are of a time and place where eating out was never part of their lifestyle. Mama B used to keep a houseful of kids during the day when few parents used daycare. She always cooked a hot lunch, meat and three. So when she told me she was cooking dinner (her word for lunch; your word dinner is supper to her), I knew that she was having a good day.

Sugar, I need to talk to you about something you might not want to talk about, she said, changing the subject from food.

I'm used to that introductory phrase by now. It usually means she's about to give something else away or she wants to tell me what she wants said at her graveside or something like that. So I put on my sympathy ears, ready to hear her heart.

I'm writing your mother a letter.

Oh, crap. Please tell me, not another letter. The last time somebody wrote my mother a letter all hell broke loose. But I didn't say anything.

Let me read it to you.

And she did. She didn't mention that she was sick, or that she was grieving the past. It was the same thoughtful, I miss you, I'm thinking of you, I'm praying for you, letter that Zelda wrote. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I didn't think it would do any good, and I certainly didn't tell her the response that Zelda got.

Do you think this is a good idea? she asked, sincerely.

Yes, I do, I replied, sincerely. You do what you want to do.

Mrs. DePaul will too.

Sigh.