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Your card was forwarded to me at Christmas time, and I was so happy at your thought of me. It is still beside me, in my manuscript case. How many times I have thought of you and wished to write you. But my life has been hard and over-driven this last year. My dear mother3 had a stroke here in California4 in December, while she was visiting my brother5, and ever since then her condition has been very serious indeed. I have had no time for anything but the struggle with the grave material ⬩W⬩S⬩C⬩difficulties that confront one in caring, or helping to care, for a helpless and very sick person stricken away from home. If this had happened at home6, in my mother's own comfortable and friendly house7, everything would have been so much easier for her and for me. But oh, it is very sad to live in hotels and rented houses—and its dreary and heart-breaking for those who watch it. I'd give a great deal for a breath of your real New England8 Spring! I love to think you are having it, and not living in this artificial climate—it is exactly like living on the stage, no reality about the place or the sunlight or the drifting, homeless people.
My love to you dear friend—I think of you often and tenderly. Willa Cather