Is This The Worst To Come?

I try to forget the 1st September, 1805. Can a mother really forget the bleakness of such a day? I write as a blind woman, forming each letter with infinite care and seeing nothing on the page. Much grieving on the way – you understand, Salzburg was not a haven for my beloved Jeanette Babette – for my darling child, who fretting, faded, quickly ailed, and was taken by God after only sixteen years on this earth – it was the first day of spring. She is now buried with Papa. Am I to survive my little flower? Take me too, for I am almost emptied of purpose. But then I remember Leopoldl and I pray to God to give me fortitude. N.