Dear Frodo, love,

Guess you would soon be bored of these leaves of paper I’ve written to you, if any of them had been sent. But what could I do about it? You left no address to send to, nor a direction to where a messenger can go to deliver them to you.

Them, you wonder? Oh yes, my beloved. I’ve scribbled many letters to you. And if you want to know, I’ve written almost every day on the first weeks you were away. Almost every morning I would sit at Mr. Bilbo’s desk – which then became yours – scrawling and scrawling words and sentences, and sometimes drops of tears when my heart could no longer stand its burden with you not here anymore to soothe it.

Frodo, how are things going? If you asked me the same question, I’d say that they don’t change a good deal. I still love you. I still miss you aplenty. The fact that it’s almost a year now (and it’s almost your birthday!) doesn’t change anything.

“Sam?” A hushed voice behind the study door stilled Sam’s hand. He turned around and smiled faintly as the door creaked a little when it opened.

“What is it, Rosie?”

Rose knew what Sam had been doing. And as much as she minded none, she was very much saddened to see that Sam was still suffering from Frodo’s leaving.

“I – I just want to show you something. Fatty seems to forget his age again. Just look from the window.”

Sam’s smile widened. He nodded. “I will see it soon, Rosie love.”

Rose blushed at the dismissing tone her husband was unmistakably using for her. She shook her head a little, mumbling, “Crazy Fatty,” and retreated, closing the door almost soundlessly.

With a smile Sam turned back to his disrupted activity.

I’m sorry to have left you a while, Frodo. It was Rosie, telling me that Fatty was acting madly again. It’s the ball playing he loves very much. You know he loves to join the hobbit lads playing the rag ball, kicking it in any direction. I won’t say he will kick it to the goalie, for he never does that! Fatty never seems to know where he should kick or head the ball. But that doesn’t matter to him. He loves playing it anyway, and no one minds either. He’s only a poor old hobbit with too much time, and longs to feel the joy he used to have with us. With you, Frodo.

And now Fatty is playing again at the open field near here. I wonder why they play there, though. They usually prefer a larger space like the ground surrounding the party tree. You remember, Frodo? You remember when you danced there? You might not have realized it, but there were so many hobbit lasses ogling you. You’ve always been such a lovely sight, Frodo.

How about your first birthday there, whenever that is, my love? Will you and Mr. Bilbo have a party tree as well? Will there be a dance? Will there be a huge birthday cake with frosting and sprinkles? Will there be speeches? But something I know for sure: there won’t be any vanishing act by Mr. Bilbo again. Oh, I’m sorry, Frodo, if I’ve made you remember those times.

A soft knock was heard behind him, and Sam frowned.

“Come in,” he called out, rather loudly. He did not mean to be rude, but he certainly did not like his doings to be disturbed again and again.

It was his wife again.

“What is it, Rose?” Sam did not even realize he had asked precisely the same question.

Rose was flushing. “It’s lunch time, Sam.”

Sam sighed. He was not hungry. He was never really hungry.

“I’m coming, Rose.” And he meant it. He really did.

But not just yet. He was writing a letter, another one, to Frodo. He was talking to Frodo. Perhaps Rose would not understand this, just like she would not understand what Frodo really meant to him. Sam loved Rose, but there was a place in his heart saved solely for the one he had safeguarded and carried on his own shoulders.

With a smile, Sam went back to his quill and paper.

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