The Correspondent Summary & ending explained

To Felix, June 2012

Dearest Felix,

Thank you for the birthday card, the fountain pen and the book, in that order of importance. Seventy-three. I don't feel it, except in the knees and, lately, in the car.

There was a small accident on the way home. Nobody hurt. A low wall, a bumper, a very polite policeman. The insurance man says the car is finished, which seems dramatic for a wall that barely came up to my waist. I'll find another. Don't fuss, and don't tell Fiona.

Give Stewart my love and tell him France is wasted on you both.

Your sister, Sybil

Unsent, June 2012

The light went out on the drive home. Not the sun. The middle of my eyes. One moment there was the road and the next there was a grey coin floating where the road should be, and then the wall.

I haven't told anyone. Who would I tell, if not you?

To Joan Didion, June 2012

Dear Ms. Didion,

I have read your books, some of them twice, at my desk by the window where I write every morning. I wanted to tell you that you got it right: grief is not a season. People like to say it will pass, like weather. But we get one lifetime of seasons, and some things simply stay.

I lost a son when he was eight. I don't write that sentence often. I am writing it to you because you will not answer, and that makes it easier.

With admiration, Sybil Van Antwerp, Annapolis

Received, July 2012

The envelope has no return address. Inside, one line in block capitals: You don't get to be remembered kindly. It is signed with two initials. DM.