Letters From Lockdown 60: Georgia Hunt

Dear Reader, whoever you may be.

That opening feels oddly reminiscent of Jane Eyre, which brings me back to many memories of English lessons in a slightly too-cold classroom with red plastic chairs.

How are you? We haven’t spoken in forever. Hah. Get it?

I’m well. Well, as well as can be, I suppose. Today is a Friday and I am sitting here, laptop on my lap, pyjamas on my body and debating whether or not the wind will subside enough for it to be a day as lovely as yesterday.

Yesterday was the kind of day that had you laying outside with a book in hand, dreaming of somewhere else. Specifically, for me, Italy. I had the overwhelming urge to be in Italy yesterday afternoon, traipsing a market filled with fresh produce. 

Specifically, peaches.

Peaches with a light mist of water that made them seem as though they were freshly picked that morning, and washed, ready for being placed upon a stand surrounded by one another and hugging close to that little cardboard sign with those cursive black numbers and letters, highlighted by red, that reads: Pesche, €1.99. 

Now, I don’t know if you can buy a peach, in Italy, at a little market, in the sun, by a lake, for €1.99, but the wanderlust in me is dictating this particular daydream, so a peach for €1.99 will do. 

Along with the peach, a golden hour of sunlight towards the end of the day, painting the bodies of people in cafes and couples laying on the beach. Sounds like a dream, doesn’t it?

But alas, at the moment, we find ourselves at home, within our walls, save for when we safely venture out. 

Do you daydream? Have you let your mind escape and take you to any other lands recently? If not, I’d definitely recommend it. Put on that one playlist, lay on the grass with your body half shaded, half lit, and enjoy the wonders of your mind. 

That’s what I did yesterday. Yesterday when the sun was bright and I had hours upon hours of time at my dispense. Today, however, Aeolus has visited and whatever move you make outside sees you met with a brush across the face of the hair you didn’t realise you needed to tie back so as not to disturb you. It’s not horrible, but not quite comfortable either. 

I miss you, reader. Isn’t that strange?

I do not know you, and may never, but I miss you all the same.

In fact, I believe I miss what you represent. The smile of a stranger on the street. The hug of a friend known for years. The non-verbal communication of two people who don’t share the same language. 

How great it will be when we finally get to meet. I wonder what we’ll say to each other. Perhaps we’ll say nothing at all. Or everything. I suppose only time will tell.

But, until then, you can find me someplace in Italy, a basket of peaches by my side, a soft linen sheet beneath me as I read and tap my feet to music under the shade of a tree that has too few leaves to cover me entirely, so the sun paints shadows over my face. 

Wherever you are, whoever you are, I hope this finds you as well as can be, on the shores of some far off land.

For now,

Writer. 

Categories: Letters from Lockdown, Series

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