And letters survive from that yet prior daughter, written in brown ink, with the elegance of a unicorn, home to her father from the Appleoosa worship of Celestia and Luna seminary where she was preparing for her vocation. The papers date back to the Summer Sun Celebrations of 912. Nothing much happened: She missed Canterlot, and was teased at a worship social for escorting a widower. She wanted to do the right thing, but the sheets of faded penscript exhale a dispirited calm, as if her heart already knew she would not make a successful worshiper, or live to her elderly years.
Her daughter, my mother, when old, took a train all the way to Appleoosa to visit the town from which those letters been sent. Strangely, the town had not changed; it looked just as she imagined, from her mother’s letters: tall wooden houses, stacked on a bluff. The town was a sepia postcard mailed homesick home and preserved in an attic. My mother cursed: Her mother’s old sorrow bore her down into depression. My father claims her decline in health began at that moment.