So, my friend, Suzanne mentioned a story I wrote a while ago that I had forgotten all about. I had written it off as trying too hard and overly romantic. She still has a copy and still reads it. Even if it is only for romantics...I touched someone with my writing, and that's the best gift a day could ever bring. Thank you, Suzanne. I dug it up and just read it again and am surprised at how it mirrors who I was and what I had gone through. I wasn't aware I had been so transparent. So here it is, "A Letter for Tess." Written in 2003. Kinda scary...putting myself out there a little with this, but oh well. It is what it is.
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Letter for Tess
by Michele May Campbell
I don't smoke, but on that day I wanted a cigarette more than
anything. I don’t visit places like
Terry Lyn's Hard Luck Cafe, but on that day, I did not walk past. On that day, my feet turned and walked
through those swinging doors, and the rest of me willingly, if not woefully,
followed. I didn't mind at all that I
was the only girl in the place; I didn't even mind bumming a cigarette off the
man half falling off his stool at the end of the bar. It didn't matter what kind it was, but I
think it was a Merit. I slid down a few
seats—so as not to crowd anyone's sorrow-drowning space—found myself a
respectably torn up bar stool and ordered my very first ever one-in-the-afternoon
shot of tequila.
I drank it down fast and slammed the shotglass on the bar. I'd always wanted to do that, slam the
shotglass on the bar, and it felt good…so I ordered another, and slammed it
again. Then I shoved the cigarette in my
mouth and let it hang there carelessly.
A hand reached intuitively—almost magically—across the bar. I was impressed with the speed of the light
(sometimes bartenders really did it for me that way; they know just what you
need and they give it to you). I sucked
until his flame kissed my cigarette, and then I sucked on that cigarette like
I'd been doing it for years. Each drag I sucked harder, possibly
hoping the nicotine would just kill me right there, or at least knock me
out. I let the smoke drift up into my eyes. I pretended it caused
the tears.
Just about the time the tequila
started to fill my ears with a soft comforting buzz and my body began to hum
more than ache, I noticed him. He was
alone. Well, we were all alone, but he seemed to have reached a level of solitude
far beyond the rest of us. His eyes were
deep and sad, yet his expression was emotionless, as though the pain had been
there long enough to become a habit that his face no longer noticed.
I watched him for a moment and then
my eyes drifted back over to the bartender, and I wondered, was he Terry
Lyn? His chin gestured up into a
question and I jerked mine up in answer.
I was a natural. I glanced around
at my fellow drunkards expecting some nods of acceptance, but I got
nothing. Nonetheless, my third shot was
promptly, courteously, and professionally delivered right to the doorstep of my
cigarette-toting fingers. Service like
that, I thought, could only come from the owner. God, I loved Terry Lyn.
Un…deux…trois...I counted to myself
as I placed the most recent empty down next to its kin. I arranged them in a horizontal line, then a
triangle, then a vertical line. I was
amazed at how little my mind wandered from their symmetry, given the day’s
events. And there I went, back into that
awful day. Another yes of the chin, and
I was on my fourth tequila train ride back to anywhere else but there. I tried to remember if I had ever in my life
ordered a fourth shot of anything, but the booze was doing its job quite well. My mind was a welcomed blank.
With nothing else to think of and a
disappearing cigarette, I looked around for something to keep my mind occupied
and far away from the hours of my life that led me through Terry Lyn’s door. My
gaze soon returned to the lonely man. I
didn’t know why, but I got the impression that he had not always been that
way. Maybe it was the soft lines around
the edges of his mouth and eyes that quietly revealed he had once known
happiness. Laugh lines. Smile lines.
Fossils of brighter days than this one.
He seemed to me a man capable of great joy, but overcome with great
sorrow.
It was then that I noticed the
envelope in his hands. Yellowed and
frayed at the edges, it looked like it had been folded many times—folded many
times, but never opened. He flipped it
over and over through his fingers.
Fingers on hands that looked as though they had worked for centuries,
smoked for decades and had long since forgotten any softness they had ever held
inside them, except for maybe the worn out paper of that shabby envelope. I watched him for quite a while. He never looked up. Never looked away from his hands. Just twirled and flipped and folded and
unfolded the unopened envelope.
I was so enthralled with the lonely
man and his cherished letter, that I hadn’t noticed Terry Lyn leaning against
the bar in front of me, waiting patiently for the ok to send in round number
five. I looked at him and smiled
crookedly without taking my cheek out of my left palm where it rested to avoid
hitting the cold hard wood of the bar.
“Miller Lite,” I whispered
accidentally. I was thirstier than I
thought. “And water, please.”
He looked at me with his eyebrows
arched and smiled like my dad once smiled at me when I returned home late from
a high school party drunk but desperately trying to act not drunk (and believing
I was doing a great job). He placed the
water on the bar and gently squeezed a lemon wedge before he let it fall into
the ice. Then he grabbed a Lite from the
ice chest and with one graceful motion flipped the top off and placed it next
to my water. Such caring precision. I wanted to climb over the bar and into his
arms and stay there all night long. I
imagined he got that a lot.
A loud scraping noise came from my
right, and I scrunched up my face from the piercing sound of wood on wood. I turned to see the lonely man sliding away
from the bar, and I watched as he slid purposefully off the stool, making sure
to steady both feet on the sticky floor before letting his weight shift from
the seat. He wore a long black raincoat,
even though the sun had been shining bright for at least a week, and from
beneath his hat, which he had not removed, his hair sprouted long gray curls
that softly brushed his shoulders.
Shuffling away from the bar as he tried to straighten his muscles into a
walking position, his left hand held tight to the envelope until he motioned to
slide it into his pocket. His fingers
let go, but the envelope missed and drifted quietly to the floor. He didn’t notice.
I thought of letting it go. I really was in no mood for being nice, but
after watching him treasure it the way he did, I just couldn’t bear to see him
lose it. I pushed myself off the
barstool, and stumbled a little as I went toward him. The tequila had
apparently made it to my feet.
“Sir,” I called after him as I leaned
to pick up the envelope, “sir, you dropped your letter.” He turned at the sound of my voice and
reached for the envelope in my hands. As
he lifted it from my fingers, our eyes met.
It was the strangest feeling I ever had in my life.
He knew me was the thought
that ran through my mind. The light of
recognition in his eyes was clear, and there was a warmth in them that looked
upon me with the most tender gaze I have ever seen. Such depth.
Deep like love. Not just any
love…true love. Fate, destiny, profound meant-to-be love. The hair on my arms stood on end as he shared
a fleeting smile before his eyes returned to gray.
“Thank you. Thank you,” he answered as his fingers
brushed mine and slid the envelope from them.
And then he was gone.
On my way back to my seat, I
noticed a worn colored bag on the floor next to the stool where he’d been
sitting. It reminded me of the
carpetbaggers I’d learned about in history class too many years ago, and I
wondered if it truly were all his belongings in that one tiny bag and what he
would do now without them. I hoped he’d
remember it before he got too far.
The last few steps back to the bar
were harder than any should ever be for a woman at my young age, and once I
crawled back up onto my stool, I drank my water down fast. I thought about slamming the glass when I was
done, but somehow slamming a 12 ounce water seemed a mountain more obnoxious
than a jigger of tequila, so I slowly slid the empty to the inside edge of the
bar. Being the wonderful man he was,
Terry Lyn filled it quickly (I must’ve really looked like I needed it), and he
even threw in a fresh lemon wedge.
I decided to sip this one slowly as
my stomach angrily reminded me that it was not fond of the liquid lunch I had
served it. I poked the lemon with my
straw and speared it down to the bottom trying to release more of its juice
into the water. Then I heard the hinges
sing to the swing of the barroom doors, and I smiled to see the lonely man
shuffling back in. I was thankful he
didn’t leave all his belongings behind him.
Even if the bag might be filled with a hundred unopened envelopes, they
were his unopened envelopes.
Well, unless he was a postman, then they were someone else’s and he
should really put them back in the mail and get them delivered to their
rightful owners.
My liquor-tainted thoughts were
abruptly interrupted when I realized he was headed my way. The hair on my arms stood on end again, and I
was a little freaked out at what he might say when he reached me. I turned back to my straw and began drinking
as if I hadn’t noticed him. I never was
very good with strangers, especially drunk old ones in dingy barrooms. My muscles tensed as if they feared he might
hit me, and my shoulders instinctively crouched in a little hoping to make me
so small I’d be invisible. I felt him
right beside me, but I was too scared to look his way. I kept hoping he’d move away, but he didn’t,
and somehow I finally conjured up the nerve to throw him a quick glance. And when I did I felt entirely foolish and a
little embarrassed.
He was standing behind me holding a
rose.
When I looked up at him, his mouth
curved slightly into a cautious smile.
He looked so innocent and soft standing there holding that flower that
suddenly the lines and folds in his face warmed my heart in the way Norman
Rockwell paintings always did. I
couldn’t help but smile back, and when I did, a full smile escaped across his
lips, and I could swear I saw his eyes tear-up just a little.
I took the rose from his outstretched
hands and pressed it to my nose. I
closed my eyes, and its scent brought me instantly to my grandmother’s back
yard on hot summer days, jumping over the sprinkler and drinking cherry
Cool-Aid. I breathed in again and smiled
remembering the red Cool-Aid moustache.
“There,” he said, “that’s much
better. A young lady with your beauty
should never wear a frown.”
To my own surprise, I felt my face
blush at his words. I couldn’t remember
the last time I blushed over anything, and all at once I wanted nothing more
than to sit and talk with him. Even the
tears that had been desperately trying to fight their way down my cheeks all
morning took a break and subsided.
Somehow I felt comforted.
“Thank you, this is so sweet,” I
said as my cheeks began to cool. Looking
up at him then, I couldn’t remember why I thought he looked so sad. His face seemed to be lit from the
inside. His eyes were bright, and when I
motioned for him to sit beside me, the smile he returned was deep and
honest. Not the kind of smile a sad
person gives you to try and cover up the darkness lurking just below the
surface. Not the kind of smile I’d been
handing out all morning until I succumbed to the pain and ran searching for
solitude and solace at Terry Lyn’s.
“I’m Edwin,” he said lifting his
hat from his head and placing it over his heart with a bow, “Edwin James, and
you’re very welcome.” His voice was
deeper than I imagined it would be, with a slight accent that I couldn’t
readily identify. With his hat off, I
could see he still had a full head of hair with curls that did not give in from
the weight of the hat. His eyes were
strikingly blue—ice blue—and it was easy to see that he was once a very
handsome man.
“I’m Fay,” I answered, “and I hope
you don’t mind my asking, but why did you give me the flower?”
“Pleasure to meet you Miss Fay,” he
answered reaching out for my hand. I
extended my hand to shake his, but he took it and gently kissed it. No one had ever kissed my hand, and I wasn’t
sure if I liked it or if it made me feel a little strange and out of
place. “You seemed in need of a rose,”
he continued “and I knew just where to find one.” He returned my hand to the bar and gently
placed his own over it for a moment, as if to steady it and make sure it was
safe before moving his away.
“Well, you may be right,” I said
trying to smile away the memories that were now flooding back into my
mind. “This hasn’t been the best day of
my life.”
“Well, then, I hope the flower
helps at least a little,” he answered placing his hat back on his head. He smiled again quickly and turned back
toward his earlier place at the bar.
“Wait,” I called after him, “won’t
you please join me for a while?” I asked
motioning again to the stool next to me.
My voice had been a little louder than I intended, and I felt my face
heat up once again. He smiled in
acceptance, walked slowly back to me, and pulled himself up to the bar.
Once there, the first thing he did
was take the letter from his pocket and smooth out its most recent set of folds. He did this so automatically, that it was
obvious he had made a habit of it, the same way he might empty change from his
pockets at the end of a long workday or turn out all the lights just before
bedtime. I glanced over his shoulder and
noticed that the front of the envelope read “Tess Mayfield” handwritten in
faded black ink with what looked like an address beneath it that had been
mostly worn away. I waited for several
moments until he seemed settled with the letter before I spoke, not wanting to
intrude on whatever thoughts accompanied his ritual.
“Would you like something to
drink?” I asked softly.
He looked up from his envelope as
though he was slightly startled at my voice and motioned with his index finger
to Terry Lyn, who seemed familiar with the signal and filled the order
quickly. I was surprised to see that
what was delivered was only ginger ale, and again I felt a little foolish for
assuming he was a drunk. I started to
tell Terry Lyn to add it to my tab, but he lifted the palm of his hand and
waved my words away.
Ignoring the drink, Mr. James
returned his eyes to the letter and quietly examined it for another few
minutes. He seemed to have either
forgotten I was next to him or to be struggling with what he should say next. Over and over he ran his fingers gently
across the envelope, smoothing it flat onto the bar. Just as I began to give up hope that we might
have any sort of meaningful conversation, I heard him speak.
“I miss you, Tess,” he said softly as if
speaking to the letter—so softly that I could barely make out his words. I felt the need to respond, even though it
was clear his words were not meant for me.
“Is the letter for Tess?” I asked
before I could stop myself. I would not
normally have been so bold or so intrusive, and as the words spilled from my
mouth, I realized just how much the shots had taken over. Mr. James turned his head quickly toward me
at the sound of her name, and this time I was sure that there were tears
somewhere deep in his eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” I said regretting
my rudeness, “that’s none of my business at all.”
His face melted back into a smile
when his eyes reached mine. “Yes,” he said, “for Tess.” He straightened himself up and breathed in
deep as if gathering himself back into one piece. “ But I never sent it,” he
sighed deeply again, “it was too late.”
“Oh,” I answered softly, curious
but not wanting to intrude any more. I
turned back toward my water, took two big gulps of it, and then took the first
sip of the beer that had been sitting there getting warm. There was nothing that tasted good about that
beer, but I felt myself coming down close to reality, so I tipped the bottle
back and swallowed again.
“We met here, at this bar, 48 years
ago,” he continued without my asking, “on a Tuesday in June.”
I turned toward him and looked at
him as gently as I could. “Were you
married?”
“No,” he answered looking back down
at he envelope, “we weren’t…we couldn’t.
But we spent what time we could together in the ways that we could,” he
smiled at the memories, “the most wonderful days.”
“Is she,” I paused to soften my
question, “where is she now?”
The corners of his mouth turned up
slightly and he closed his eyes briefly as if to pay respect to an image only
to be seen by his mind’s eye. “She is
here,” he placed his hand over his heart, “here with me now.”
Tears perched in my eyes at the
honesty of his words. Mr. James looked
up at me then, and upon seeing the streaks fall across my face, he gently
placed his hand over mine on the bar.
“Oh, sweetheart, are you alright?”
I was anything but alright,
and it was then, spurred by his kind words, that I was overcome. It was sudden and complete, and I was
helpless against the tidal wave of tears that swallowed me with its swell. I covered my face with my hands and began
sobbing like child.
“Oh, sweetheart!” he cried, quickly
reaching for a napkin. “Oh, sweetheart,
please don’t cry.”
He handed me the napkin, and I
released one of my hands from my cheeks to take it from him. It was soaked in no time, and he handed me
another, and then another. I cried hard,
harder than I had allowed myself to cry in a very long time. Poor me, poor me, poor me, was all I
felt with every sob and sigh. I knew it
was pathetic self-pity, but I didn’t care.
I was in pain over which I had no control, and I had grown tired of
fighting it, weary from pretending that none of it mattered to my heart.
It mattered, and my heart was
broken.
Mr. James sat quietly next to me,
his letter momentarily pushed aside and replaced with a supply of cocktail
napkins in his hands. After what seemed
like hours, the tide of tears began to subside, and the numbness of the
after-cry began to reach around and embrace me.
I dried my cheeks with a fresh napkin and wiped the corners of my
eyes. My body was buzzing from all he
air I’d taken in, and my mouth felt pasty and tasted like salt. I reached for my water, which had been
replaced by a fresh glass sometime during my outburst, drank half of it, and
then used the straw to bring an ice chip up onto my tongue, chewed it, and
swallowed away the saltiness. I was
shivering slightly from the release of emotion, and a leftover tearless sigh
snuck up and stole a few more of my breaths before my body was still
again.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just don’t know what I’m doing here.” I wiped my eyes again. “I was supposed to meet someone at the train
station across the street this morning.”
I breathed in deep to keep myself in one piece. “I came all the way here
for him, and he didn’t come. I waited
all morning for him, and he didn’t come.”
I felt the tears slide down my cheeks again, but they were more peaceful
this time, quietly trailing along the sides of my face and falling onto my
lap. “I shouldn’t have come here.”
The look on Mr. James’ face was
somewhere between surprise and concern.
“Are you,” he cleared his throat nervously, “are you sure he doesn’t
have a good reason? There could be some explanation.”
“I don’t know, and I don’t
care. I just know I feel foolish for
believing this was the right thing for me to do…I came so far for this. I’m so far from home.”
“Do you love him, this boy? What’s his name?” he asked earnestly.
“His name is Ethan.” My body warmed
at the sound of his name. “And, oh, Mr.
James, I don’t think love is a big enough word for what I feel for him.”
His look of concern shifted into an
easy smile, and he took one of my hands between both of his. “I think I know just what you mean. Tell me about him, won’t you? Tell me what makes you love him so.”
“Will you tell me some about Tess?”
I asked.
“I will,” he said squeezing my hand
gently.
We spent the next hour sharing the
many reasons we loved. I told him of the
nights Ethan would play his piano for me, how I’d wish his songs would never end,
and how I’d close my eyes to try and memorize every note so I could replay them
to myself when we were apart. He told me
how Tess would pose as he painted portraits of her, how he had always been in
awe of her stunning beauty fearing he’d never capture it, and how she had cried
the first time she saw how beautiful she looked through his eyes. I shared how I would leave notes of poetry
for Ethan in his pockets, in his shoes, in his hat, and how he’d recite them back
to me at moments when I’d least expect it.
He shared how Tess had written him letters every single day since they
the day they’d met, each day describing one new discovery she’d made about him
or herself or the world and how he’d kept every single one of them and still
read one every day.
Mr. James and I talked freely about
our loves, and I never stopped for a moment to ponder the similarities between
them. And then he asked me, “Does he
know how much you love him?”
“He’d have to be blind not to,” I
answered, “when I look at him it is with love, when I kiss him, it is with
love, when I touch him, it is with the deepest love.”
“But have you ever told him?”
I lowered my head and rung my
fingers together in my lap. “No, I
haven’t. And I don’t know if I can,
especially after today. I’m too afraid
he doesn’t feel the same way, and I’ll ruin everything.”
“My dear, let me tell you one last
thing about my Tess. I adored her with a
passion that would rival even the greatest of love stories. To this day, I can
close my eyes and see her deep green eyes looking back at me. I can smell her
perfume. I can still feel the unending
ache for her at the center of my heart.
But I, too, feared that if I spoke the words they would not be answered
in kind, so I let them go unspoken. And
then one day I made a mistake, and before I could make it right, she was taken
from me. And now I long to believe with
every ounce of my being that she felt the same for me and that she knew the
depths of my love for her.”
He tugged at my hand slightly to
bring my full attention to him. Our eyes
met and locked. “Now, I ask you once again, do you really love him?”
I could not look away. “Yes, yes I love him so much.”
“Even now, when he is not here as
promised, do you love him still?” I
could feel my cheeks flush a deep red as he demanded my answers.
“Yes, still.” I answered.
He held my hand with one of his and
pulled it toward him as he went on. “Can
you forgive him fully and love him without resentment?”
His gaze upon me was intense, and
there was something about the hopefulness at the center of those blue eyes that
would not allow me to look away still.
His other hand clenched the unopened envelope.
“Yes, after talking with you today,
I know I can forgive him. My love for
him is deeper than this passing pain.”
A full smile spread across his
lips, and his eyes filled with tears. He closed them and lowered his head
taking both of my hands now in both of his.
He was silent for a moment, and then he looked up at me again with that
most tender gaze and said, “Then you must not waste one more solitary moment of
your life without telling him so.”
And with that he stood from his
stool, collected his carpetbag, and pressed my hand to his lips once more. “I must go now, but please know that I shall
never forget this day.”
Again, I blushed. “Mr. James, you have made all the difference
in how I remember this day. I was in
such despair this morning, but now I feel hopeful again. And instead of being afraid, I now see the
possibilities. How can I thank you for
your kindness? Is there anything you
need, anything I can do for you?”
He returned my hand to the bar,
resting his own over it to steady it for a moment before leaving it. “You already have my dear, you already
have…more than you will ever know.” And
then he turned to leave.
Before he reached the door I
noticed his letter on the bar. “Mr.
James!” I called to him.
Stopping himself with one toe and
then spinning himself around with the same toe, he answered, “Yes, my love?”
accompanied by the most charming smile.
“Your letter, you forgot your
letter,” I said holding it up and returning his smile.
“My dear, that is yours now.” He kissed his hand and blew it through the
air, spun himself back around with the same toe and yelled, “Now, go forth and
love!” as he pushed himself out into the sunshine.
A fresh breath of air breezed in as
he left, shifting the hair around my face.
I’d always loved the wind through my hair and the way it left me feeling
breathless and new. I looked down at the
envelope in my hands and ran my fingers over her name. I stared at it for a few minutes wondering if
I should open it. Finally, curiosity got
the best of me and I flipped the envelope over and gently ran my fingers under
the flap. It was so worn that it opened
easily and without tearing.
Inside was a single piece of yellow
stationery with scalloped edges. As I
pulled the paper out, a photo fell from between its folds face down onto the
bar. It was obviously very old and
looked as though it had been taped to a picture book at one time. Before
reading the letter, I picked up the photo from the bar and flipped it
over. My whole body froze at what I saw,
and I could swear my heart stopped beating all together the instant my eyes
fell upon the image in the picture.
It was a woman at a bar holding a
rose.
Not just any bar, I could see the
mirror behind her etched with the words “Terry Lyn’s.”
Not just any woman, she looked exactly
like me. From the waves in her hair
right down to the curve of her smile.
I looked up at my reflection in the
mirror in front of me and then back down at the picture. I couldn’t believe it. I was stunned. I looked up once again at my reflection and
noticed my face was directly over the same place in the etching as was behind
her in the picture. And I realized I was sitting in the same stool.
Goosebumps jumped across my skin,
and I felt a light layer of sweat spread over my entire body. My heart was beating fast, and with trembling
hands, I unfolded the letter. It was dated Tuesday, June 3, 1958, and it read:
My
dearest Tess,
By now you will have returned
home and are wondering why I was not there at our meeting place as promised to
run with you to the places we’ve talked of, dreamed about, wished for. I am asking myself the very same question at
this most regretful moment. There are no
words that I can produce that would even touch upon the shame and remorse that
I am feeling inside. I can only say that
some irrational, irreverent fear gripped me from somewhere deep within this
morning as I approached the conductor, and I could not be sorrier that I
allowed myself to be guided by it.
Oh,
my dear Tess, you are risking so much for this dream of ours, and I worry that
I could never provide for you the way you so richly deserve to be provided
for. How can someone like me possibly be
worthy of a lifetime with you? You are
the moon that stirs the oceans, and you deserve nothing less than the sun to
match your brightness.
I
realize that I have left too many things unspoken, thinking that love is a word
not nearly magnificent enough to represent how I feel for you. But I should have said it a thousand times
each day anyway. I know that now. I should have shouted it from the rooftops if
only to be certain that you know without a doubt that you are my light.
Oh, sweetness,
can you ever forgive me? Can you ever
love me fully and without resentment again?
Please look upon this photo of the day we met and know that my love
remains as true as the red on the rose in your hands. I will never again let you out of my heart
for an instant. Please give me another
chance to show you.
I love you, Tess.
I have always loved you.
I will always love you.
Yours
with unending adoration,
Edwin
I was speechless. I stared at the words on the page and the
picture for a while longer before I returned the paper to its familiar folds
and slid the letter and the photo back into the envelope. I sat there silent for a few moments and
pressed the coldness of my hands against my forehead and cheeks.
“Anything else honey?” the
bartender asked. It was the first time
he had spoken out loud to me all day.
“I’d like to just pay my tab,
please.”
“Listen, sweetie, Mr. James has
been coming in here every Tuesday since my granddaddy worked the bar when I was
just a kid cleaning tables, and let me tell you, I ain’t never seen him smile
once. I don’t know what you said today,
but it must have been somethin’ real special.
Your tab’s on the house.”
“Oh, thank you so much,” I said
realizing even more about what had occurred that afternoon. “So, I guess you’re not Terry Lyn then?”
“Oh, hell no, that was my
great-grandmother, I’m Rocko.”
A sudden laugh escaped my lips, and
I covered my lips with my fingertips hoping to hide it. “Well, it’s been a pleasure Rocko, thank
you.”
“Anytime, honey. Come back anytime. We got lots more people come in here that
could use some smilin’.”
As I gathered my things and put my
coat on, I tried to make sense of the day’s events. It seemed like a million years ago that I sat
alone waiting at the train station. I
was no longer feeling hopeless, no longer downhearted, no longer forcing back
the tears. I didn’t know how things
would turn out for Ethan and me, but I knew I didn’t want to be sitting at
Terry Lyn’s 50 years from then wishing I’d found out.
I felt I had been touched by
something extraordinary that day, and I knew what I had to do. I was going to shout my love from the
rooftops.
I placed the letter carefully in my
pocket, buttoned up my coat, and headed toward the door.
“Have a nice day!” Rocko yelled
from behind me.
I stopped myself with my right toe,
spun myself around with it, and blew him a kiss before spinning back toward the
door.
“Now go forth and love!” I yelled as I pushed myself out into the
sunshine.
THE END
