Letter

It all started with the letter on her doorstep.
There was no stamp, and no return address
A dirty thumb had sealed it with a dirty smudge
The loop in the L, the angle of the T,
The handwriting was eerily familiar.


She went inside for a letter opener.
The little sword he'd brought back from Japan.
And she pulled out the letter, neatly folded in three
And took a seat as she began to read,
To read the words aloud to the room.

She held the letter up close to her face
Was she imagining the smells she sensed?
Motor oil and garden soil and a hint of coffee
The smells and the words brought pictures to her mind
Of other times, grassy fields and sitting in trees.

At the end of the letter she let it drop
And ran back out the front door to the gate
A single tread had paused there this very morning
But had now gone on to follow the sun
Leaving only scattered dust behind.

She went back inside and reread the letter
Wiped away a single tear from each eye
Yet a smile began to slowly grow wider
And she sat down in the big rocking chair
Facing to the west, her eyes follow the sun

As she waits for his next letter.

© Glenn Davies 2004 

Written November 11 2004