The Missive

And the dried leaves, curly and crunchy, lay upon the doorstep of the quiet, solitary home. No one lived there anymore. They had not for years. The old woman had passed away alone in the hospital bed. Her last breath had been unwitnessed. She was just another old woman, grey and wrinkled and silent. No one bid her adieu. No one cared.
And in another home far, far away, there sat a man in a cozy worn armchair of faded fabric. He lay dozing while the flames burned the wood and the pop pop occasionally made him gently stir. He was dreaming of this lovely young beauty from his long ago. Oh how he had loved her from afar. She was popular. And possessed inner beauty as well as outer. And his heart sung for her. And he wanted to be her betrothed. And so he wrote a missive. And poured his love into words for her on paper of white. Such words that she would know clearly of his love for her. How she lit up his life. How she would be loved like no one else ever would. How they would grow old together, hand in hand, and that love that he spoke of would grow and grow and be espied each time he looked into her eyes and she into his. How glorious their lives together would be. I lack the words. Do you know of what I speak?
So he delivered this missive. With every ounce of hope he could muster. With every word he hoped he could convince her of his everlasting love. His clear desires, his everything: she would be his world! And he placed it on the doorsill of her little home. Lovingly. Longingly. Lustfully. At long last he would know her answer true. And he returned home to wait for her reply.
Who knows what happened then? Was it the fates who sent a gust of wind to fling his words to the gutter? Was it a jealous suitor who saw it and reading it like a busybody, destroyed it? Was it her father who disapproved of his impoverished state? Was it the furies who saw what would be the consequences if they had their fun? I do not know. I only know when the young beauty went to the door, the message was gone. And so she went on about her life. And he never spoke on it. She did not reply. And he did not know. We will never know.
And so the dried leaves blew across the doorstep. On the empty home. Filled with dust and memories of what could have been. Do you hear my words? Do you heed my message? Thank you for listening to my words. kissesssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss....Cynthia. xoxxo
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4 Responses Jan 16, 2013

Specially beacuse this can and happens beyond the specific story.
What you never knew, what occurs when your attention or emotionality are taken elsewhere.Wwhen someone could not understand the message. Or even didn't want to do it then, but later....
That, sometimes, leads to a question we can't answer nor avoid about our pasts: what if...?

Your thoughts call out a warning to all who would leave a stone unturned. Incredible writing

This is cleverly written and beautifully delivered Cynthia xxxxx

Nice. How many of us have longings for a missed opportunity, yet uncertain why that opportunity was missed.

Such is life.