Everyone misses you dearly. I’m sure you are unable to write at this time due to your imprisonment. Hopefully, that is the only reason. Your brother is a medic in Europe as far as I’ve heard. A medic! You boys always have been the helping types, and now he’s a medic in the war. I guess he didn’t want to kill anyone. He chose to heal instead. What a family. I’ve spent some time every week keeping your sister company. She needs the support of a sisterly figure, I think, with you and Brian gone, and now your mother being so ill. I’m dreadfully sorry to hear that news. She’s always been a wonderful lady. I’m sure she’ll pull through, and so will you.
I find myself sitting under the tree. You know the one, where I wrote one of my first letters to you. Where we spent long summer days sitting in its shade just talking. I’ve been thinking about how much [“I”? appears scratched out] we all miss you. You’ll make it back to us soon, I just know it.
P.S. I found this poem and I thought you might like to read it while you’re trapped there.
I WONDER by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved ? were we not wean’d till then ?
But suck’d on country pleasures, childishly ?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den ?
‘Twas so ; but this, all pleasures fancies be ;
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.
And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear ;
For love all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone ;
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown ;
Let us possess one world ; each hath one, and is one.
My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest ;
Where can we find two better hemispheres
Without sharp north, without declining west ?
Whatever dies, was not mix’d equally ;
If our two loves be one, or thou and I
Love so alike that none can slacken, none can die.
[Many of the remaining letters are carbon copies. It is possible that someone had them copied before sending them in case they were never received. The poem, “The Good-Morrow” by John Donne, must have had some sort of significance between Laura and my grandfather.]