Smiling, I reread her letter today.
It was not a letter to me though, but a letter to someone else which had served as bait, the basis of interest by which I was pulled in, into the mystery of this quaint epistle, to be further intrigued, and perhaps fooled into likewise writing back—to her.
Initially, I had read it and reread it as merely a memory, a day in the life of a whimsical wordsmith who worked magic with a stop-and-go style she called her own, a babbling brook of a quirky missive that flowed flawlessly over the cobble and pebble stones of my consciousness.
But in rereading it again today I realized that underlying the stream of offbeat observations was a solid foundation of love for that someone in particular she had written for. She specifically ended her cooing course of transcribed thought with a not-so-subtle pining, proclaiming she reveled in the inspiration of his absence, and was moved by the solemn-glee of consciously trying not to miss him.
I missed this important notch in the meter reading possibility between us, that all-important first time around.
And now, frowning,
I understand why I
did not reread her letter to me
today.
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