1979
Emery Erret Eardley
26 January 1979
Cherished Donna,
I am learning to live with such excruciating pain born of my own compromise and complacency: big dreams with no discipline, feeling overwhelmed by overthinking from about a year ago. I am overstuffed with nothingness, yet always disappointed.
Love,
Ebony
28 February 1979
Dearest Donna,
I write yet again to remind you to live now — today, in the present. We have no knowledge of tomorrow. We stare blankly at walls, dig deep into complexities, suffer from main-character syndrome — but please, do not waste your youth and dignity. Wear that burgundy lipstick and those little kitten heels Mama couldn’t…
With love and anticipation,
Ebony
14 March 1979
Donna Brown,
There is no cure for uncertainty. When your faith begins to waver, know that you are a wave on the sea, being blown by the wind — it’s what the preacher at St. Matthew’s used to say. But how would you know? You hate going there. You are raw material to me: you want everything yet need nothing; perhaps you are just hungry for feeling, not for reality.
Sealed in love,
Ebony
28 March 1979
My darling Donna,
I suppose you are a ray of sunshine, fueled by the love in my letters today. Sometimes I lack better words, but the simplicity of my love is the depth of it. I am afraid to confess some of the things conjured up in my mind — like how I wish I could bite into the midnight blueberry cheesecake at Christmas. I see hope leaking from your torn, tiny heart like the bright confetti I hated at school. Don’t forget to smile and keep your chin up.
All my love forever,
Ebony
17 April 1979
Endearing Donna,
Couilles de mouton and faire la bise will always be my favorite things about France. I have not been able to tell you this — well, you never ask. It is awful to imagine things without you; again a part of my life taken away. Too many days and nights I am filled with despair; nevertheless I am less shaken now — settled, for quite some time, in loneliness. Night and day join hands to torment me; I cannot distinguish what hurts most, but I am aware you carry my love.
Forever in love,
Ebony
15 May 1979
Beloved Donna,
The thrumming of rain on the asbestos roof reminds me of when darkness would steal upon us in the night. I still like to read in your tone, mimicking voices — now with no pancakes, only boredom. No work on Sundays; not forgetting a dream with ramifications. I remember Mama — a good, old woman she was, kind and beautiful. She gave us what she could, not always what we wanted. You clung to her so much; her smile was always sunny and warm.
Always yours,
Ebony
27 August 1979
Dearest Donna,
Please take this seriously: an illusion is not living. Tell Merida — her love for Charles, Mama says, is forbidden. Don’t let her carve herself into a big slice of cake for those who deserve only crumbs. I know he has seen another woman, slightly slenderer than her, with longer legs and a trim figure, and he tells both of them sweet nothings. Learn this about life: be tender with yourself. Live intentionally and intensely; collect art, books, and jewels, but please — not criminal records. You have always had a hornet’s temper and the strength of a rhinoceros.
Affectionately yours,
Ebony
28 September 1979
My dearest Donna,
I hope I haven’t missed any artistic detail since my last letter. I don’t know if I came on too strong, but give me an opportunity to express myself without hurting you. It gives me so much hope to witness your herb garden bloom more than your flowers; I must say you never picked a bouquet for me but for Nana on her deathbed. I miss your midnight tea, full of stories of places I have never been with you. I want to know if you read my letters with sappy emotions and expressions — with chills down your spine and tickles under your feet.
Love,
Ebony
28 October 1979
Beloved Donna,
I intend to acknowledge that when I go to bed and when I rise my first thoughts are with you. I am constantly reminded of how much of a gift you are to me — you are the sunlight in my dull heart. I know you are in no silly condition; I think of you now and forever. I have been pondering whether you can be more than a friend, whether you might be a companion. I have only a few healthy needs.
Lovingly,
Ebony
25 December 1979
Dearest Mrs. Whyte,
It’s Christmas yet again. No star hangs above my tree, nor any lights twinkle across my house; still, the jingle bells at Old Mrs. Lola’s won’t let me sleep. I have always loved to stay up late, dreaming dreams no one dared to dream, making connections between polarities, solving problems that were never really there to begin with — sorting things out in my head like your maniacal boss’s document cabinet. The snow isn’t brutal and the cold is perfect; I’ve acquired new knowledge. Sometimes you think I am soulless; it would be vanity to claim I don’t care, even though I do care for myself more. I hope to walk side-by-side with you on New Year’s Eve; I won’t come with empty hands, so be delighted, my darling. Don’t forget to light the fireplace — your house gets colder than a grave — and take the sock off the mantle; you are too old to wait for Santa. See you soon.
Adoringly,
Ebony
29 December 1979
Terrified Ebony Whyte,
I must admit you had entrance to Donna’s heart. It appears to me you always had the heart of a young ox — never frightened at the will of others, unafraid of sensations. Your knowledge of real life is expansive, and your courage braves perils. You can afford to price extraneous delight. Self-respect and blind devotion are condiments to you, that I agree. To give love through a conch is an experience with rules. I don’t delight in the news, for death has nothing on you. She spoke your name often; memories were pillows for her balding head. The cancer had eaten far too deep into her lungs, though in pain Donna muttered of the glow in your deep dark green eyes. I’m afraid you won’t be walking with your dearest, your beloved, your Mrs. Whyte side-by-side on New Year’s Eve. You can’t be broken — I know. You are an element bound with ego and love; worry not, for the Lord has her in His keeping.
Regrettably sincere,
Margaret Brown
Emery Erret Eardley
Emery Erret Eardley is an African poet whose words are born from a restless urge to question, provoke, and stir the human spirit. Poetry is not simply the arrangement of lines and metaphors; it is a living force, a mirror that both exposes and consoles. Every verse the writer crafts is an invitation for readers to step into a space where emotions, ideas, and imagery collide, often in ways that are raw, unsettling, yet profoundly human.