Karoline Goldberg

The letter

Not a lightning, for a lightnings appearance frightens. Not thunder, for its power may be of destructive kind. No, it was more likely to be a firework. Imagine all the colours, the shimmering, the bright and powerful explosion. Imagine all amusement and positiveness coming with a firework. Yes, as sudden, as beautiful and as powerful as a firework, that was it.
Should she tell him, she wondered. Or might she scare him away with the depth of her emotions, in which they both could get lost and suffer a painful end? Might they just do so and wind up in pain? A low spoken warning went through her mind, but she chose not to pay any attention to it.
Instead she chose to write. With  midnight blue ink and a tailfeather of a peacook, she sat down to write. Words came easy, just not what to write. For what could words, such as "wonderful", "eternity" or "love" even nearly describe? Certainly not anything about the way she felt.
So she never sent any letter. Weeks went, months and suddenly it had gone a year.
It was a temperate morning that Saturday in the beginning of May. Like any other day she would nearly cast herself out of the front door to go through her daily mail. A shame the postman would never bring her any. He simply lifted his hat, wished her a pleasant morning and went away on his bike.
It lasted all too short a date, she told herself each time she entered the saloon empty handed. Just as a firework, she thought, just as a firework.
With the speed of the light it goes from nothing to such heights of no mans imagination. It explodes with the force of a thousand men army and steels the breath of every person who comes into its way. Not a single man shall be save from its beautys force, from the mystery of its great power. There will be passion, there will be hunger, the need of freedom for the untamed and the life. Yes the life of all what comes together in the explosion of one, only one, firework. By the end, there is nothing left, but pieces of what once was a unit. Dust of what once was a fire. Darkness of what once was a light.
Spectators will not show any interest nomore and only the small children, with their sence for love and purity, will remember the spectacle of the sky. They will remember the beauty, the power, the mystery, the light.
With a soar courage she moved towards the fire place.
It lasted all too short a date, he could never have felt the way she did. They could never have constituted a firework, she could not possibly have ignited his fire.
Now, she was a soaked match. Not soaken by water, not soaken by tears, but soaken by the grief of loss. No phenomenon in this world could ever make such a wet match burn again.
 
So peacefully she lay there, in front of the fireside on that old Emma she had had through generations of family. It almost looked as if she had just fallen into a deep deep sleep, out of which she would return with new life.Beside her was a pile of letters. He could not remember that he had brought her so many letters through the years as her postman. Of course, there were always one or two postcards from relatives a week, but not so much as one letter had he ever had in his bag for her. To ensure he did not lack of quality as a post man, he had to look a little closer. Every letter was the same.
It was the letter she had written him every day, but never had sent.

" For what reason, my dearest, shall I bear this life given me? What shall I seek in every new day I will be blessed with? What for, all this, my love, when it is only you I want to bear, nothing but you I want to find every day, may it rain, or may the sun shine.
Yes, I name you my love, for in my eyes you will always remain and in my heart, you shall always live as such.
There is no poem to dedicate you, nor a song to sing you, as little as a picture to paint you. For an invention of human kind might just never be able to come close to what your origin demands. No word of legends, no sacrifice of knights, nor a prophecy by any bibles men, will have the greatness enough to make you right.
Your beauty I could not compare to the beauty of springs first flower,
for the flowers beauty will, unlike yours, fade.
Your strenght I could not compare to the strength of a sword,
for the swords strength will weaken after use.
Your intelligence I could not compare with the intelligence of the Greek,
for the Greeks intelligence was only good compared to yesterdays standard.
What I can not find anything to even for a moment believe to be compartible to, is your spirit. Free like any bird, proud as an eagle and with the majesty of a lion. It comes from every angle and fills me up, to lend me some of its vitality and energy. To inspire me with its mysterious warmth.
Now comes not goodbye, my dear. Now comes farewell. For you are royal to me, from the moment I saw you, until my last sight has been seen. But I am not royal to you, for what might I ever be, compared to you?"

 

All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Karoline Goldberg.
Published on e-Stories.org on 05.08.2007.

 

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