Seven-Letter Words

October 3, 1978

Dear Marcus,

Your last letter arrived just as Dr. Winters finished my weekly assessment. My "decline progresses as anticipated," he informed me with that professional detachment they must teach in medical school. I wanted to tell him about your magnificent 72-point play—"QUIETED" across a triple word score!—but he wouldn't appreciate the victory like you would. Three years of correspondence, and still my greatest joys arrive in envelopes with prison inspection stamps.

To answer your question, no, Daniel hasn't visited since August. The Resource Management Board sent him the updated timeline, and I suspect it's easier for him to wait for their notification than to sit beside a mother who's been officially scheduled for departure. I don't blame him. Our culture provides no handbook for watching someone you love become a line item on a government efficiency report.

The nurses have been chattering about the Camp David Accords all week. Peace in the Middle East—imagine that. Thomas would have been fascinated; he followed world politics religiously. Strange how history continues its relentless march while personal timelines contract.

I had that recurring dream again—the one where I'm back in my classroom but all the desks are empty. I walk to the window and instead of the school playground, there's an endless lake stretching to the horizon. Dreams have always been my escape. When Thomas was deployed in Korea, I dreamed us walking together along Lake Michigan every night.

My window here at Sunset Haven faces the staff parking lot—practical for ambulance access, though we all understand ambulances rarely represent rescue for residents of the six-month ward. The maple tree outside has turned brilliant red. I count sixteen cars each morning as the day shift arrives, seventeen if Dr. Winters is running assessments.

Regarding our game, I've studied the board carefully. With my remaining tiles, I can form a seven-letter word connecting to your "ED" from last round. I'm sending you these jumbled letters to unscramble: I, A, G, T, N, S, J. Only 16 points, I'm afraid, but sometimes the satisfaction comes from using all seven tiles.

The new night nurse, Margie, has been unusually attentive. Last evening, she helped me to the solarium after hours—against regulations—so I could watch stars appear. "Everyone deserves a few minutes with infinity," she whispered. She had a portable radio tucked in her uniform pocket, that new Bee Gees song playing softly—"Night Fever." When I mentioned our Scrabble correspondence, she asked several questions about you. Her brother is "inside" at Jackson, she said.

My hands trembled too badly to hold my teacup this morning. Another small dignity surrendered. The Resource Manager visits tomorrow to review my transition schedule—October 31st remains firm. How fitting to depart on Halloween, when the boundary between worlds grows permeable.

Your seven letters: R, O, S, E, N, A, S.

With enduring friendship, Ellie

October 12, 1978

Dear Marcus,

The magnificent autumn storm that swept through Michigan last night delayed mail delivery. Your letter arrived rain-soaked but legible—another small victory against circumstance. You correctly unscrambled my letters to form "GIANTS"! Your play of "REASONS" (rearranging my R, O, S, E, N, A, S) for 16 points maintains your lead, though I notice you placed it at the board's edge rather than utilizing the triple word score in the center.

The Resource Manager confirmed October 31st as my "departure date." Such sterile terminology for state-sanctioned death. The paperwork requires my signature acknowledging "allocation of resources toward higher-probability outcomes"—bureaucratic language disguising the fundamental calculation that my eighty-two years no longer justify further investment.

I taught my granddaughter Melissa a game when she was seven, before Sarah moved to Australia. We called it "Secret Truths." The rules were simple: before bed, she would tell me about her day, but hide one true thing inside a made-up story. I had to guess which detail was real. "The trick," I told her, "is to hide the most important truths in plain sight, disguised as fantasy." Children understand intuitively what adults forget: imagination provides the safest container for reality.

Daniel's wife Amanda brought me a Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress for my "final photographs." The dress is lovely—navy with small white polka dots—though it hangs on my diminished frame like curtains on a closing storefront. I'd rather be remembered in my own clothes. My generation wasn't raised to prioritize fashion over authenticity, despite what those disco-influenced youngsters might think with their platform shoes and polyester shirts.

Thank you for sharing the story about the prison librarian who helped you discover Steinbeck. Twenty-three years inside, and still you find passages that illuminate internal landscapes no steel bars can confine. Your description of Steinbeck's "curious tension between acceptance and rebellion" perfectly captures what I've felt since receiving my timeline.

Margie smuggled in butter cookies from the bakery downtown. We shared them while she told me about her brother at Jackson, four years into a twelve-year sentence for armed robbery. "He made one terrible decision at nineteen," she said, "and the system decided that's all he'd ever be." She mentioned a new movie playing downtown—"Midnight Express," about an American in a Turkish prison. "Makes Jackson look like summer camp," she said with a laugh that didn't reach her eyes.

From my window this morning, I counted eighteen cars in the parking lot instead of the usual sixteen. Two unmarked sedans with government plates. The maple leaves are falling faster now, scattered across the asphalt like tiny conflagrations.

With my remaining tiles, I can form a seven-letter word connecting to the final 'S' in your "REASONS." Unscramble these: P, Z, U, L, D, E, B.

Your seven letters: W, R, I, H, P, E, S.

With thoughts of freedom in all its forms, Ellie

October 19, 1978

Dear Marcus,

Your "WHISPER" (rearranging my W, R, I, H, P, E, S) played diagonally for 24 points! And yes, you correctly guessed my play was "PUZZLED." I admire how you continue finding creative paths across our increasingly crowded board. After three years of correspondence, our game resembles a small city viewed from above—intersecting words creating unexpected neighborhoods of meaning.

Daniel finally visited yesterday. He brought paperwork finalizing the sale of my house—funds transferred to cover "transition costs" and funeral expenses, with remainder divided per my will. He was distracted throughout, checking his watch repeatedly. Later, I overheard him telling a nurse he had tickets for "Superman" at the Lakeside Cinema. Apparently, this new Reeve fellow flies through the sky without visible wires.

When Daniel asked if I needed anything else, I requested my wedding ring from the safe deposit box. The nurses will remove it before my transition—regulations prohibit personal items during the procedure—but I want to feel its weight once more.

I dreamed of my classroom again last night, but this time it wasn't empty. You were there, sitting at a desk by the window, working on a crossword puzzle. When I asked what you were solving for, you said, "Seven-letter word for liberation." I couldn't see your answer before waking. Dreams have always been telling for me—gateways to truths my waking mind avoids.

I understand your hesitation about the upcoming parole hearing. Hope becomes dangerous after repeated disappointment. Five denials in twenty-three years would calcify anyone's expectations. Still, the new sentencing guidelines might work in your favor, particularly with your record of helping fellow inmates continue their education. That young man you mentioned—Joey?—who learned to read under your tutelage represents the rehabilitation the system claims to value but rarely recognizes.

My condition accelerates beyond the doctors' projections. The tremors have become constant companions, and yesterday I found myself unable to recall the name of the street where Thomas and I lived for forty years. Memory slips through widening cracks like water seeking lower ground.

Margie continues her small rebellions on my behalf. Extra pain medication. Foods not on my restricted diet. Last night, she helped me to the garden courtyard after hours, whispering, "Same time tomorrow." She brought her radio again, switching between stations until finding that song you mentioned—"Heart of Glass." Beautiful, haunting melody. When I mentioned your parole hearing, she asked detailed questions about your case that seemed beyond casual curiosity.

Sixteen cars in the parking lot this morning. The maple has lost half its leaves already, creating a crimson carpet across the asphalt.

With my remaining tiles, I'll play a word connecting to your "P" from "WHISPER." Unscramble these: D, T, E, A, H, X, C.

Your seven letters: Q, I, T, E, L, U, Y.

With thoughts turning inward, Ellie

October 27, 1978

Dear Marcus,

Your letter arrived just as I returned from my final medical assessment. Dr. Winters pronounced me "on schedule," his clipboard filled with checkmarks confirming my body's compliance with institutional expectations. The tremors have intensified, and yesterday I required assistance to sign my name on the final transition documents—an illegible scrawl that barely resembles the signature on thirty-five years of student report cards.

You correctly guessed my play was "DEATH," and your "QUIETLY" (from Q, I, T, E, L, U, Y) played vertically for 22 points! You've maintained your lead with consistent precision. Our game has become a timeline of our correspondence—each word a milestone marking our strange friendship conducted through government-inspected envelopes.

I'm touched by your concern about my "surrender" to the procedure. Please don't mistake acceptance for defeat, Marcus. I've made peace with biological inevitability, if not with the bureaucratic mechanism hastening its arrival. When Thomas died seven years ago, I realized that endings rarely conform to our preferred narratives. We write our stories in erasable ink, while circumstance carries a permanent marker.

Thank you for sharing the results of your parole hearing. "Continued risk to public safety" seems an absurd assessment for a man who has spent more time helping fellow inmates obtain GEDs than he spent making impulsive decisions as a troubled youth. The system's capacity for irony exceeds its commitment to rehabilitation.

Four days remain before my scheduled transition. Daniel visits tomorrow to collect personal items for distribution according to my wishes. My well-worn Dickens novels for his children. Thomas's pocket watch for my nephew James. I've set aside several books to be donated to your prison library, each containing a pressed maple leaf between specific pages.

The nurses have been whispering about that tragedy in Guyana. Hundreds dead at some commune called Jonestown. Mass suicide, they're saying, though details remain sketchy. Thomas always insisted we balance news consumption with poetry—"Reality requires counterweight," he'd say while reaching for his Whitman collection.

Last night I dreamed I was standing by a lake, watching sunrise paint the water in colors I'd forgotten existed. I held a blue coffee mug that fit my hands perfectly, despite their tremors. No institutional walls, no efficiency reports, no medical charts—just water and sky meeting at a horizon that promised continuation rather than conclusion. "Secret Truths," as Melissa and I used to play—one authentic detail hidden in fabrication.

Margie worked consecutive night shifts this week, requesting my wing specifically. Last evening she helped me to the garden courtyard again, this time bringing a contraband cup of real coffee. We sat in companionable silence watching stars emerge, until she suddenly asked if I had ever imagined a different ending to my story. "Everyone deserves to write their own final chapter," she said, checking her watch with unusual attention. She hummed that song from the movie everyone's talking about—"Grease." Something about summer nights.

Sixteen cars in the lot this morning, plus a maintenance van I haven't seen before. The maple tree stands nearly bare now, its crimson offering sacrificed to autumn winds.

With my remaining tiles, I'll form a word connecting to the "I" in your "QUIETLY." Unscramble these: X, T, E, I, C, A, M.

Your seven letters: F, N, I, A, L, L, Y.

With thoughts of what remains unsaid, Ellie

November 7, 1978

Dear Marcus,

I had the most extraordinary dream last night, so vivid I can hardly distinguish it from waking life. I dreamed I was in a small cabin overlooking a lake, watching sunrise paint the water in colors I'd forgotten existed. Coffee steamed in a chipped blue mug that fit my trembling hands perfectly—real coffee, not the institutional imitation.

In this dream, I survived beyond October 31st. The dream-me recalled surreal events: Margie appearing at midnight with street clothes and whispered instructions. A service elevator to the basement. A maintenance van with tinted windows. I thought perhaps I had already died and was experiencing some unexpected afterlife.

Dream-logic carried me to a rendezvous point where I met a young man with gentle eyes and nervous smile—your former cellmate Joey. "Marcus says you helped save his mind," he told me, "so he's returning the favor." He explained about his sister Margie, the night nurse who risked her job. I never suspected your parole denials were orchestrated to maintain your connection to the outside world through Joey's release.

A doctor examined me in this dream. He said without proper treatment, I might have three months. With intervention—treatment the state deemed "resource-inefficient"—perhaps a year. A year of sunrises and real coffee. A year of writing letters without government inspection stamps.

The dream continued with papers identifying me as Joey and Margie's grandmother, recently moved from Florida. Invisible to the system that previously catalogued every breath.

In this curious dream-state, Joey's cabin had a small television where we watched election results. The announcer said something about Michigan's governor winning by a narrow margin despite that controversy about property tax reforms.

I woke thinking about our "Secret Truths" game—how Melissa would hide authentic details within invented stories. Dreams function similarly, don't they? Revealing essential truths through metaphor and symbolic narrative.

You correctly identified my last play as "EXIT," and your "FINALLY" (from F, N, I, A, L, L, Y) connecting to it scored 18 points. With my remaining tiles (C, A, M), I can only form "CAM" for 5 points. You've won our three-year game by 64 points. But then, this was never really about the score, was it?

From my dream-cabin window, I counted no cars at all—only pine trees swaying against a November sky, and beyond them, an endless expanse of water meeting horizon. How different from the sixteen vehicles I've counted each morning from my Sunset Haven window. The dream-maple outside was not the one from the parking lot—this one still held its leaves, crimson against azure sky.

My dream-radio played that new song—"MacArthur Park"—the one where someone left a cake out in the rain. Such peculiar lyrics, yet somehow perfect for that space between sleeping and waking where meaning shifts like sunlight through stained glass.

A curious detail from this dream: a package delivered by a cabin caretaker—books supposedly from the prison library where you work. Inside Thoreau's "Walden," a note in unfamiliar handwriting: "Some birds aren't meant to be caged. Their feathers are just too bright."

Your seven letters, for our next game: L, I, B, E, R, T, Y.

With thoughts of possibility, Ellie

P.S. The oddest thing—I'm wearing my wedding ring as I write this. But that's impossible, isn't it? The Resource Board would have removed it before my transition. Dreams blur reality in the most confounding ways.