bait_backup | Owl to Clover Lovegood

Clover,

It's been a long time since I've written you at all, since you were almost always home for dinner and there was no need, really. And then you were missing and I couldn't bear to. But now I find myself writing you because I want to tell you that I love you.

I'm not sure what it means that I can love you after you are dead, but I do. I wish I could talk with you about what that means, I'm sure you would figure it out. I also wanted to tell you that the Quibbler's almost ready to launch (see, I finally did it). I had so hoped for you to read it. I still do.

I miss so many things about you: your walk, and your smile, and your stomach even though you think it sticks out too much sometimes. I miss how you would wear high heels even though you're taller than me to start with. I miss how you would ask me a question in the morning and it would end up an adventure in the day. I miss how you would marvel over every flower I grew, even the really ugly ones. I miss trying for a baby (both the potential result and the process, as you would say). I miss when you would say things like that, too.

I miss these things because they're gone, but sometimes still they're closer to me, more real, than any of the things in our house or the people who come visit. You're the real-est thing in my life, Clover, as ever.

I miss your cooking too. Maybe that's selfish: you're the one who's dead and all I have to worry about is I didn't like my eggs this morning. But I try to make it the way you did and it doesn't taste the same. I wish I'd written down your recipe, because now I'll never have it.

I looked for the rest of you in the woods for a long time, but I stopped. Sorry for that, but everyone says you are definitely dead instead of probably, and it hurt too much, besides.

Hope you are well.

Love always,
Xeno

P.S. Don't worry about writing back.