Letter to a Friend

Greetings, Simon. I trust this finds you well.

It's funny you chose to write me this week. I thought of you only just this morning. The barn owl I spoke of last year has returned to raise some young. I was filling the kettle in the wee hours, just at the right moment to to catch them in the moonlight. Of course, I thought of us, you and I, the two night owls from the radio station, and all those quiet conversations we shared on weekends after dark.

Your last words, I have to say, haunt me now and again, in a quiet way, whispering, as cloud of starlings, lilting to the ground to echo the leaves of fall, circling, softly, surrounding me, embracing me; and they sink in like the last remnant of a drop of old perfume, heady and warm, musty, muted, and faintly musical; they loop through hope and memory; and at night, they nestle comfortably among the stars. Eyes closed long enough, I might disappear among them. I thank you. Your latest opus, however, hides a slightly different note, somewhere in the middle. If I read you rightly, it deserves an answer.

It was the summer we bought the Bella Rosa together, you and I, a shared childhood dream brought to life. What a beauty she was, the gleaming wood, the sensuous lines. What joy she brought us all. We'd parked it in my barn. You were there helping mend my fence. Milly, that old sheep dog I had, was pestering us. She distracted you and you cut your hand on the barbed wire. Perhaps you'll remember.

You went home to clean up, with plans to meet back at my place to take her out on the lake and spend the evening on the beach across from the old mill, with Sarah and Katherine.

Sarah knew where to find me, behind the house. I was walking along the fence, looking for other problems. I scarcely remember hearing her car pull up. My mind was lost in the clouds. When she first called my name I thought I was dreaming. It was so soft. But then I looked up. Her blushing cheeks were like an opening flower.

I know you sensed the magnetic mutual attraction Sarah and I experienced on first meeting. I was never privy to your private conversations, and intended no harm or disruption. As time went on it seemed the two of you were doing well together, and I buried those feelings. I dated that horrid woman from New York to occupy myself. Remember? The red headed dancer. Thankfully she moved on. I was happy for you marrying Sarah. How could I not be, for my best friend in life since the fourth grade.

I could have waved Sarah off, but my pounding heart wouldn't allow it. She gave that hint of a smile, the kind that melts men's hearts, and I could not help but smile in return. I knew you were returning. We both did. I was afraid to move. She walked to me through the weedy grass. When she touched her hand to my shoulder, I thought, that alone is going to do me in. Her closeness electrified me. Our eyes said it all. You're married. I know. Then? I don't know. Let's not. No words.

I had no inkling of problems between the two of you. Were you breaking up? I wondered. Why else would she be here, like this? And even then, if so, I dreaded the idea of being the reason. She ran her fingers through my hair and then touched my cheek. I took that hand with mine and held it. We stared into each others souls. And then I walked her back to the house. Heather and fireflies danced around us in the heat, and I remember how symphonic the forest sounded, all the creatures chirping and chiming up among the leaves. I like to think I'd already decided. That we both had. I believe I had. But until someone else showed up I suppose it's possible that anything might have happened.

And then came Katherine. She parked outside, knocked on the door and blew in like the wind, her trunk full of fantastic eats and wine. Our time alone, me and Sarah, had been but a moment. I went upstairs to wash. And that was that. We had a grand evening, that night on the beach.

Regrets? No. I'm grateful for what I have, for all the good, what there is, in my life, and that I have known you both. Sarah gave you a life and a family. She loves you, and deeply. I know this. As do I, friend. So many years have passed, but I do think you were prodding me, and in the end, I would have regretted not telling you. Would I have wanted to know? I think you already did.

Time is sly in changing us, like Renoir, painting soft the things from our past. Let not a youthful lapse in the mind from decades ago undo anything

Your friend

J.