A Woman of Letters...

I read the letter that you wrote. 

The first time I read it I snuck up on it and read it cautiously. As if it were a snake that might bite me. 

I found it in a book of poetry. Pressed between the pages. Preserved there with what had once been a red rose. 

It had been there so long that when I moved the now dusty brown flower an image remained on the page. A faint outline, a memory of the rose. Now and forever a part of the poem it had been pressed against.

The second time I read the letter I read it slowly. Carefully. As if it were the chapter of a novel. A mystery that needed solved. 

Who was this woman you wrote to? I did not recognize her. Had I ever known her?

You loved her. This was clear. You loved her grace. Her delicate ways. Her lips like rosebuds kissed by the morning dew. 

I looked at my chipped green nail polish and imagined her fingers with their pale pink tips, delicate white moons rising in each bed. Reaching so delicately forward.

What was she reaching for? You didn't say. 

I thought of the words you had written so long ago and I made a wish. I wished that you found that woman. The one you so clearly loved. The delicate creature who loved red roses and poetry and romantic letters. 

I hope you found her and I hope she made you very happy. 

And I hope she recognizes the woman she sees reflected back in your eyes.