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Rated: E · Other · Other · #1697159
A letter can't reach a memory
I wrote you a letter today, and whether or not the words on this paper will mean anything to you, I still address the envelope and attach the stamp. There is no delivery intended for this letter, and it will sit in a stack in the corner of my room - a stack of undelivered letters.



The mud of the ground stuck to the bottom of my shoes. My journey to school found me pausing to remove my shoes. I scraped a pound of mud off of the bottom and continued. Nothing crossed my mind. It had rained yesterday.



I saw you today in the hallway walking to class. I don’t consider this hobby of mine that of a stalker, just that of admiration. There are no grandeur romances played out in my head, there are no romance movies projected on the back wall of my mind. I just admire.



The winter was a bitter friend today. The cold pushed my scarf closer to my neck. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a familiar shadow. Darkness flit between the houses and the sun fell off of its throne. The clouds found new color and position.



There is a sticky note addressed to you and placed on my wall. I hope you never read it. I know you’ll never read it.



Today, in that one class we share with each other, I caught the elusive scent of your aroma. It was a sharp, autumn ginger smell. I like the way your hair curves in spaghetti motion. I like the modesty of your clothing, the class in your voice. I like…



There is a path by my house. The trees are beautiful in the way they stand. The fresh air is pleasant and calming. The wind danced between the branches of the wild oaks and willows. I like the brittleness of the bark, and it crumples in my hand.



You dropped a book today, and I picked it up for you. You said "thank you" in the way I always hoped you would. You used a voice I only wished I knew. The slight smile on your face, the way your lips parted, the whiteness of your teeth. Beautiful fails as a description. I nodded my head, and my voice failed me. My knees shook from your presence, and I wobbled away.



I wrote you a note today, on paper, with black ink. It was an apology and a plea. I never intended for you to read it, and you never did and never will. But something placed that note in my left back pocket, and that heavy weight followed me to school.



When I didn’t see you in class, the note gained weight. By the end of the day, without the weight -relieving glance from your eyes, it was difficult to carry. I wonder what I would have done if I had seen you. I wonder sometimes what it would have been like had…



What?



The eyes of my peers reflect a color I can’t describe. Their swollen faces, their running mascara and tear stained shirts. There is something on their lips, and my heart begs my ears not to listen. There is a choke. A lump in my throat, and my chest is heavy and hurting. My eyes reflect a color… and half way through school I stumble from the building.



The clouds cried prior to the event they helped create. I remember the howls of the wind last night, and the striking of water to ceiling as I had tried to sleep last night. There was something more than lightning and thunder keeping my mind alert.



I…



Don’t know how to say in words what…



They say it was the wind and the rain and the darkness. They say it was the mud sucking at the bottom of the tires of your car. They say this all contributed.



There is a path by my house. The trees are beautiful in the way they stand. There was brittleness in the bark, as you collided into it. Your car demolished the beauty of the trees, the beauty of you. They say you suffered very little. They say… a lot of things I wish I never heard.



There will be no more smiles, no more…



I ripped up the note and tore the sticky note off the wall. I ripped them beyond reading. I demolished them, like you had been.I removed the letter from a stack that sat in the corner of my room. I lifted the letter to eye level and I realized...You’d never read it. I realized so much of nothing.



You’ll receive the letter Monday. You’ll never read it.
© Copyright 2010 Earl P. Jackson (3.14land at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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