February 11, 1963
Hello, Mother. I regret my letters have become few and far between. It’s as if I can feel my very spirit fading; some narrow bolt thrust out and shaken loose. Even the designs of my etching fingers grow tired under a chronic weary fog. My lungs ache to take in death, pools of sweet forever set upon abstracting all of this nonsense, ascending me to nothingness. I fear a firm lecture awaits me, these tiny quizzes failed, my nerves frayed by the very sunrise, collapsed by birdsong, breeze. Perhaps I will find refuge in Warren’s Mixie, or some black and silver piano dusk, filament of color rising to sky as dwindling notes. These last pneumonial breaths, latchstrings cut loose by some cruel omniscient narrator; I am helpless to retie the knots formed to hold me here. This relentless sludge, cold silence are too much to bear. Perhaps these shall be my last words sketched. Or perhaps tomorrow the instinct for breathing shall resume, restored. I wait.
Yours,
Sylvia
.
Shawna’s Monday Melting at Rosemary Mint invites us into the world of Sylvia Plath. Head over for some great reading.
Whimsygizmo's Blog 
What a creative approach!
“I regret my letters have become few and far between.” This made me laugh at first because I skipped over the date and thought you were being funny, writing a letter from beyond the grave. You know, nothing could keep Sylvia from writing—not even death. 🙂
“ascending me to nothingness” What an interesting thought, “nothingness” as ascension. I like.
“my nerves frayed by the very sunrise” This is very powerful.
“latchstrings cut loose by some cruel omniscient narrator” I love this.
“helpless to retie the knots” Nice.
“Or perhaps tomorrow the instinct for breathing shall resume, restored. I wait.” What a powerful ending! Excellent. Of course, the date of this letter is the date she died. So we know she didn’t wait long.
Thanks, chica. Your prompt (and excerpts shared) make me want to read her stuff. In my spare time. ha.
It is hard to read the words of someone facing death either by choice or by serious illness. Your words here captured the intensity of being so close to death one can nearly taste it.
Thank you, Mary. I was trying to imagine being Sylvia’s mother…wondering at all that pain and depression.
“pools of sweet forever”
“collapsed by birdsong” I love those!
Love the idea of a last letter – and it does sound so poetic and like the thoughts that may have been going through her head at the time. And up until the last moment not really knowing if she would have to contend with tomorrow.
Wow, and now I know our minds work in a similar pattern because when I went to tackle this list my first thought was to title it Dear Mixie and then I said Auriela is prettier but I never ran with it any way!!
Love this portion:
” filament of color rising to sky as dwindling notes”
and…
“This relentless sludge, cold silence”
I wicked love the “en,” sound that resounds in this!
Great bit of prose fer sure, De!!
🙂