The Letters You Left

When Anna inherited the old lake house she did not intend to stay.

it had the smell of dust and pine and memories that were not hers. Old years creaked in the stove-pipes at the wooden floor, and the corners were framed with cobwebs like little ghosts telling the story. But that touch at the sight--God, that touch at the sight--made her linger on one more day.

Then two.

After which a week.

She reassured herself that she was simply going through the things of her grandmother. And in reality she was fleeing. The town off. Out of a relationship which had been fraying as a loose thread she had not seen until it was too late. From herself.

Her mother had buried the first letter in a drawer of old postcards and expired coupons the old-fashioned kind dated back to the pre-depressive days and one day they were discovered on one of her afternoons, the old post cards and all.

It is in a book titled Moonlight and Birch, which was handwritten on yellowed paper.

The 17th of August 1967

Dear L,

You have been here again to-day. You are always saying that you are only here to mend something but you stay too long to be only that. And I read it in your eyes, how you so-carefully avoid looking at me as you think I am not watching. I would skip personal commitments and leg it with you straightaway in case you asked me to. But we know you won t. And I am not bold enough to enquire.

A

Anna read twice. The ink was worn away; the hunger still in it was the new one. The following day she discovered another letter that was secreted in a photo album. Then again one in the kitchen, neatly folded up behind a spice tin.

They were all in the order A to L, all yearning, vacillating, flirting individuals who never did.

Anna got involved in an obsession. Who was L? Was it a love? Lust? A neighbor? A secret? She had not heard her grandmother mention anyone except the grandfather of Anna who had passed away way before the birth of Anna.

And on the ninth night of her stay in the lake house someone knocked at the door.

She opened it and there she saw a man; perhaps, he was in his middle thirties, with a basket of peaches.

I beg your pardon--I started him--I did not realise, said he. “I’m Noah. I have on the opposite side of the lak the place my family owns. Once knew about the lady who lived here. Nice-est person I ever saw.”

Anna bade him enter. They sat over tea and talked. He described to her summers spent diving on the dock, fireflies, thunder storms, how the lake clouded up in the mornings. He questioned her regarding what she was there and she replied that it was sadness, mainly. With much left in questions.”

The second one he came with wine. And next a guitar.

Then himself solely.

Both began to walk in woods and talk of forgotten dreams. When she told him of the letters she listened. He made no reply either by laughter or by a change of subject. That is a true love story he just said. But even though it did not become one.”

One night, having sat down and seen the sun bleeding gold over the water, he kissed her.

it was not electric or world-ending. It was still. Safe. As though she was holding in breath and now it came back to her, how to breathe out.

This, she whispered, was something different; she did not know what it was.

Well, it may not be ready to have a name yet, he said. Perhaps, it is all about time.

They were getting letters all the time.

One in the raffers. One sewed into a quilt. One entombed in a jewel-box.

In the bedroom under a lose floorboard was the last letter.

1970, October 2

Dear L,

You did not return. I had devised to wait till the frost had come, until the lake was frozen. Hope you got what you wanted. I hope she treated you kind. I remained, myself. I led a satisfying life. One, however, not my dream--but one of restless delights. And that is sometimes, enough. Nevertheless, I always loved you.

Farewell, my dear.

A

Anna actually wept over reading it.

Not because love was not there but because it needed the strength to love.

Afterwards she discovered Noah sitting on the dock, with his feet in the water.

Silently she sat down by him and put her head on his shoulder.

She did not realize the kind of story this will take her.

and she was now not afraid to write it.