The Letter by A. Petmeki (books for 6 year olds to read themselves TXT) 📕

My hand hurries over the paper; I quickly jot down the thoughts before they are forgotten. The nib of my fountain pen squeaks every now and again softly on the paper. Quietly, it scratches the word that I write. Otherwise, it is still. Only the scraping of the pen can be heard in the room.
Thoughts race through my head, words I want to express, everything that seems essential to me. I sit at my old desk and write, by hand, with a fountain pen.
Why? Because that is how the person the letter is intended for likes it best.



Do you remember

, those were the first words on the sheet in front of me. Hastily, I continue to write.

Do you remember my last letter?

What had I written to you, exactly? You cannot win every battle. Have faith, everything will be alright. No one wins all the time. Such is life; we all have to fight, every day. These were actually your own words, just like “hold your head high” and “be proud and without regret”.
Your response to my letter was straightforward, but it gave me courage.

Do you remember

how you taught me to be strong, never to give up and just to start over if I did not succeed?
How much I’ve learned from you. Did I ever thank you for it? I can’t remember. For some things, of course, but did I ever tell you how grateful I am for everything as a whole?
Do you recall how you both taught me to sing? No matter how off-key it was, you listened and encouraged me. To dance, regardless of how many times I stood on his feet and to write, although the words never made much sense. And always to do what I enjoy doing. I still live by that today. Every day. Thank you both.

How long has it been since you answered my last letter. Seven, maybe eight months? A long time. A lot has happened. Lots to tell.

Do you remember

our holiday in Turkey and your old broken-down house that we stayed in? Where you truly were convinced it would make a good place to live, surrounded by so many houses and with no sea view?
"But at least it’s warm and it gets lots of sun," you answered while laughing out loud.
The time we spent there was quite lovely. Taking the taxi to the beach daily and trying to teach the driver a little German. Our Turkish was limited to words such as “milk” and “water”. But you still looked up every word in the dictionary. You didn’t try to remember them, but you did try to pronounce them and every time you would laugh again.
"It’s important," you said, "you have to adapt everywhere nowadays".
We were at the beach every day. We sunbathed, both turning every 30 minutes like two roasting chickens on a spit, each of us with a book in our hands.
You and your novels. Stories of Africa and safaris, always about strong women who followed their own path regardless of the hand they were dealt. These stories always captivated you.
You always followed anything with Africa, elephants or safaris with the greatest interest. Strangely enough, you devoured the historical novels - that I enjoy reading – faster than your safari stories.
How many hours did we talk about these books in the evening after getting back from the beach while deciding what we should eat.
And yet the choice was actually always quite easy. We would simply call a taxi, go out and try out all the restaurants in the small town one after another.
And every night, you would say that you weren’t hungry. But you at least liked the bread, the Turkish flatbread with quark.
I remember how one time you were so tired that you just closed your eyes briefly and then suddenly your head jerked back up abruptly. You had dozed off. At the table, in the middle of the restaurant. After that we left and went home.
It was fortunate that there were some German television channels. Before watching a film together, we would sit on the balcony and watch the day fade away. Watching films with you was an amusing experience with the way you would keep talking to the television.
"No, don’t you see? There’s someone in the corner!" you would cry and then you would start ranting for a while about how stupid the person in the film was. I would laugh under my breath.
It was marvellous to see you like this. Nice, how you were still able to be so annoyed by such mundane things.
Always being strong carries a price, I thought to myself back then.

You know, I learned a lot from you. I learned a lot about you. A lot of which I hadn’t known before or had seen from a different perspective.It was lovely to hear everything from you personally. The story of your life, your thoughts, your concerns and your sorrows. The happy experiences but also the sad ones, just everything you could think of.
I could have listened for hours. I was, and still am fascinated by your life. You have been through so much, seen so much.Or also the other conversations we had. About everyone and everything. About you, me, our family and our friends. We talked about life and laughed about the widely known numerical answer to the meaning of life.
Your answer was the most wonderful thing I've ever heard. 
"The only meaning of life is to love and to be loved," were your words.

At the beginning of our holidays, it was sunny and warm in Turkey. But after a week had passed it started to get colder. Officially, summer was long past. It was autumn, and even here it was getting colder on the balcony in the evenings.
On two days, you simply didn’t leave the apartment. "Too cold," you said, even though it was 22 degrees outside and just a bit cloudy.
But fine, we were on holiday together. So, I played some cards with you as a distraction. Of course, we played Shanghai, your favourite card game, and of course, I still lost. I always had terrible cards, or I didn’t use them well. It didn’t matter though. I never let you win, but your good luck was sometimes unbearable.
But another thing you had taught me as a child was to be a good loser, because in life, you can’t always win.
Oh, the nights were the only unpleasant thing. Quietly you would sneak down the hallway to the bathroom and wouldn’t come back out for a quarter of an hour after which you’d just as quietly sneak back into your bedroom. Yes, I heard you most of the time and then I thought to myself again: being strong carries a price.

Back in Germany, do you remember our last day together before I went back home?
You smiled at me and said: "Christmas will be nice, when we see each other again."
Full of energy you embraced me and pushed me out the door. "See you in seven weeks!" your last words were before I drove home.


Christmas, I would like to tell you, wasn’t at all nice. Neither was my birthday, because you weren’t there. You can’t know this and that is why I am writing this letter.

I was with you. One last time, but you were already gone. I arrived, you had just left. Wordlessly, almost unnoticed.
The window was ajar and I stroked your hair. You looked so peaceful.
Your fight was over. You couldn’t have won it and you had known it. You had told me at the beginning that I would have to be strong. You had been teaching me that ever since I started walking.
You supported me my whole life, were with me and I asked myself if this was one of the moments you tried to make me strong for.
I want to tell you:
I was strong. I was happy for you, happy that it was so quick. I was thankful that I was able to see you. I am glad that I was able to spend those moments with you.
I am relieved.
Sad, yes, but with the knowledge that you are now in a better place. The loss hurts, but the memories remain. I will hold on to them and will carry them with pride and without regret. Never with regret.

I still have so many questions. Most I will never have an answer for. Are you with him? Are you stars or are you angels? Do you look down upon us? I wish it were so, then that would mean that Ody, your small and loyal dachshund is now also at your side. We took him in – mum and me – but he followed you loyally, not even six weeks after you left. His fight was also over.
It’s strange. He was the same as you. Just like you, he was strong to the end and went almost unnoticed.

Do you remember

the pen in my hand scrawls over the paper. These are the last words that I am able to put to paper. The ink on the paper slowly starts to run. Tears I hadn’t shed before fall and mix with the blue words. Quietly, I say the following lines to myself as my hand glides over the letter.

Do you remember

how you always held me and kissed me on the forehead, while you gently told me in your soft voice:
“The joy it gives me to hold you in my arms is priceless. I love you, sweetheart.”
Let me answer that one last time in this letter:
“The joy it gave me to have you as my grandma, was even more precious. I love you too.”
I miss you every day, but I am strong and remember everything you taught me. These are the last words I write on the paper in front of me before I put my name to it.

My letter ends here. I have said everything I wanted to say. I put the pen aside and dry my eyes with my sleeve.
I fold the paper carefully and put it in an envelope. Only then do I take the pen again and write her name on it.
My grandmother’s name: Eveline.

With the letter in my hand, I get up from my desk, hurriedly grab my things, put on my shoes and get on my bicycle.
I stop at a quiet place. No cars to be heard. A clear blue sky, only a few clouds pass overhead.
I sit down under one of the trees at the wooded area where I had stopped and look over the surrounding countryside. In front of me a meadow and a lake with a bridge off in the distance. My favourite place. I begin to reflect. For hours, I sit here and think of you.
Only then do I take out the envelope and turn it around in my hands. I frown and wonder to myself:
What does it take to send a letter to heaven?
Pen and paper? An e-mail or just thoughts?
No matter.
I pull out a lighter and burn it. The paper crackles in the fire.
The flames lick it and in less than an instant the letter is only ashes. Ashes that fall to the ground and are carried away by the wind until they become part of it.
Just like you.
“I sent you a letter”

, I whisper softly into the wind. But I don’t expect an answer.

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