The better part of valor: items undelivered, 12/12/08

Packages not wrapped. Phone calls not made. Letters not left at the front desk. We have finally reached some sort of place in the whole scheme of things, the place where letters and packages and phone calls would be more of an intrusion than appreciated, where long distance looks and signs left by the side of the road and paths crossed might bring on more headaches than heartache. There is no doubt in my heart that our time has passed, and then, when I think of books not passed along, words not shared, laughter surpressed, I think that it's okay that I still do stupid things, like buy books and write letters and shelve those moments away for you. Why? Because banked fires die slowly, and even candles, left to their own devices, gutter out when their time is up.

Let the flames go out on their own. You, my dear, did your best to blow them out years ago and it barely worked for you. But birthdays and anniversaries come on their own, calendars have no sense of decorum, of rules, of false boundaries. Time knows nothing of jealousies, of heartache, or of wrinkles on our faces. It just passes, and passes along options on how it can best be dealt with.

This time your birthday was handled with grace and dignity. I left all those things behind, not on your step or in your mailbox or someplace public for all to see, but just here, in this little note. A copy of a Donna Hay cookbook. A letter in my document box. A cheesecake turned into a contest taste treat for the household and friends alike. Face it, it would have been all too dramatic and sad, anyway. The holidays are about ready to spring. My words here are winding down. The satchel is about empty of things to share, but then, maybe, before the end of the year, which is almost upon us, I'll dump it out and do a final inventory. Wrap this up, go on with new things.

See, I still have that moment to relate, that night of The Snowman, of The Time Traveler's Wife. A rainy night of stolen time, of loveseats and bird feeders and bookclubs and such. It fills up such a large part of that bag, you see. It is really the biggest part of the tale, the largest stakeholder in this time thing that I have been working on so hard illuminating.

And so, for the moment, I will save it. It is a New Year's Eve story, as you know, and we are still weeks away from that. As for Christmas, well, you and I have things to do. I suppose you may be going soon, and as for me, I'll ship The Boy out in a few days to his mother in Boise. So much for the better.

What we started oh so long ago I remained true to. I gave you my heart but now the action/reaction of those days are finally upon me. Thank God. I couldn't have gone forward with my life if not for you and that gift you gave me on the eve of my birthday oh so long ago. It was truly the best of presents, and because of that gift, those words, that act, that I held back last week. That I kept those presents and notes and words for you to myself.

I didn't need to share them. You already know how I feel, who I was thinking of all through the day. But you, keeper of one hellaciously packed Captain Nemo trunk, and mistress of words spoken, ones silently and knowingly stored away in your heart, are still the psychic receiver of those thoughts and feelings and words. No matter how old you get or whatever anyone else needs to hear. You are the receiver and I am the transmitter and even without seeing your face you know. Yes, you know.

Another year older, M. But wiser? Happier? You tell me.

Love.

Your WHMB