Our April Letter
by F. Scott Fitzgerald


This is April again. Roller skates rain slowly down the street.
Your voice far away on the phone.
Once I would have jumped like a clown through a hoop—but.
“Then the area of infection has increased? … Oh … What can I expect after all—I’ve had worse shocks, anyhow, I know and that’s something.” (Like hell it is, but it’s what you say to an X-ray doctor.)
Then the past whispering faint now on another phone:
“Is there any change?”
“Little or no change.”
“I see.”


The roller skates rain down the streets,
The black cars shine between the leaves,
Your voice far away:
“I am going with my daughter to the country. My husband left today… No he knows nothing.”
“Good.”
I have asked a lot of my emotions—one hundred and twenty stories. The price was high, right up with Kipling, because there was one little drop of something—not blood, not a tear, not my seed, but me more intimately than these, in every story, it was the extra I had. Now it has gone and I am just like you now.
Once the phial was full—here is the bottle it came in.
Hold on, there’s a drop left there … No, it was just the way the light fell.
But your voice on the telephone. If I hadn’t abused words so, what you said might have meant something. But one hundred and twenty stories…
April evening spreads over everything, the purple blur left by a child who has used the whole paint-box.