The man sat at his desk scratching out a letter to his school friend. His thoughts were not on the letter though. They were drifting to his silver-apple snuffbox, and what something so simple as an apple symbolized.
He wanted to go upstairs and trace the carvings on his wardrobe and read his account on being a magician's nephew. He wanted to visit Polly and see how she was doing. He wanted to find his old house and dig up a set of rings and try them on. He wanted to see the Wood between the Worlds and jump into Narnia. He did NOT want to see Jadis again. He wanted to see Aslan most of all.
He knew that Aslan was here. He went to Church. He read about the Lion of Judah and the Lamb who was crucified. But reading about and praying to aren't the same as touching and kissing, and that is what he wanted to do. He wanted to be a child again. He wanted to love on his God. He wanted to dance with talking animals.
He already had a reputation among his friends and servants as being quite immature for his sixty-two years. That was all right with him. It gave him hope that he had clung to his faith and love of Aslan well enough that others could notice. It was comforting. If others noticed his so called immaturity perhaps Aslan had, perhaps he was pleased.
He would not call himself immature, simply a bit more lively than most scholarly sixty-two year olds were. He had known several of his younger friends to come to him for advice, and he hoped that he could be called wise. But the party in question cannot accurately discern such a judgment, and he recognized that.
He set down his pen—he was making no progress on the letter—and walked upstairs to the Wardrobe Room. Perhaps someday this grief and homesickness would go away.
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