An
Unsent Letter
When I saw that you got married, it wasn’t the fact of it that struck me. It wasn’t your grandmother’s white ermine draped over your shoulders or the pale yellow spray of flowers. It was the image of you standing, facing him, with your eyes close. An expression of focus on your face as you struggle to hold onto this comfort, to absorb the happiness of the moment to a deeper level, into your bones and blood, where it will stay this time. His lips on your forehead lightly and it is the end of a long long road.
I didn’t know you were getting married on Saturday. I was out at a ballgame on the other side of the country. There was a grand slam and it was pouring rain. Then later at the bar I lost control. I told my friend what you said once, that if I asked that you’d say yes. I’d been thinking of what would be different. But I never asked.
Almost a decade has passed and I find out about your wedding because a mutual friend’s webpage lists you with an additional last name. And I get a call from my boss and sprint out to get to an appointment and look out across the East River at New York City. And I remember that feel, the feel of my lips lightly brushing your forehead as you shut your eyes and tried to lock the feeling in and tried not to cry. But you’re beautiful when you cry.
Or perhaps that look on your face has changed and I do not know you anymore. Perhaps it was truly peace.