My Secret Love

In the western corner of my room there is a door. That door leads into my closet. If you were to open that door, you would see racks of clothes – dresses, pantsuits, skirts, shirts – you would see a jumble of shoes on the floor and boxes of old magazines shoved back in the corner, haphazardly piled and forgotten. What you would not see is my treasure box. In order to find that, you would have to know what you were looking for and just where to find it. It's nothing spectacular to look at; just a shoebox. It once held a pair of Nike cross-trainers – blue on white, black sole. Now it holds my greatest secret. My most treasured possessions.
It sits up on the highest shelf, slightly left of center in the darkest bit of closet space behind a stack of old journals and dusty schoolday trophies. It is labeled merely "STUFF" in magic-marker black letters. A very ordinary-looking box indeed to be holding the secret it holds.
I don't open the box very often. Only once or twice a year do I lock my bedrooom door and reverently lift it down. I carefully untie the frayed and faded yellow ribbon, blow the dust off the cover and open it up. The first thing I see is a lopsided paper heart It used to be red, but time had faded the colour to a blotchy pink. Written on it in childish blue-crayon scrawl are these words:

Roses ar red
Vylits ar bleu
Shugar is sweet
And so ar you.
Hapy Valntimes Day

It is a typical kindergarten-age Valentine card, the first one I ever received.
I pick it up, smile over it, set it aside. Underneath is another card; a double-fold rectangle, edges uneven and dog-eared. Plain white paper with words written in red wax crayon:

I like candy
Cos its sweet
And I like you
Cos I think your neat

I got this one in first grade. It had a foil-wrapped chocolate taped to it. The chocolate was half-melted and squished into the paper a little, but it was delicious anyway.
There's another card under that one, and another, and another. Every year I add another paper greeting to the box. It has been eighteen years now, eighteen cards, and the funny part is I still don't have a clue who is sending them to me. Even when I changed schools, or moved away, they've never stopped coming. Over the years I've wondered about my secret admirer, dreamed of finding out who he was. In fourth grade, I was sure it was Ricky Baker - blond, pretty, and nice to everyone. He always had a special smile for me, and sometimes he would choose me first to play ball at recess. Ricky was the love of my life back then.

In ninth grade, I though perhaps Martin Parx was my unidentified destiny. He was the quiet, self-effacing, tragic poet type. Tousled, overlong dark hair, long thick eyelashes surrounding dark green eyes that were moody and as changeable as the wind. I was head over heels in love with those eyes. Martin wrote poetry; and when I read the poem in the card that year, I just knew I had found my soul mate. The card was deep crimson, cut in the shape of a blooming rose. To a ninth-grader's eyes it was an exquisite work of art. The poem was written in white milkpen, in beautiful cursive:

As a rose has many
Petals,
Each unfurling to reveal
A perfect, dusky center,
So you also reveal more
Of yourself with each passing year,
And every glimpse into your soul,
Dusky and mysterious,
Is a gift beyond price.

I remember blinking back tears as I read the words. They were the most romantic I had ever heard. If the schoolbell had not rung at just that moment, I would have hunted martin down in the hallway ad kissed him right then and there. I found out later how much of an embarrassment that would have been – for both of us. It definitely was not martin that sent that card. Martin Parx did not like girls.
It wasn't Nick Gradon in twelfth grade, either, or Tanner Wade in college. I have given up trying to guess the sender of these love notes, content to just enjoy the mystery of my romantic ghost. Still, I have to wonder, how is it that this person always knows where to deliver the card? How is it that this person can say he loves me when I've concluded that we've never met? And how does he always know exactly what I've been longing to hear?
For eighteen years, I've asked myself these questions. Idly, usually, a mystery to be pondered in my awake-at-3am moments. But yesterday all of that changed. Yesterday the stakes were raised dramatically. This year's card arrived a day early, slid under the door when I got back with the groceries. White envelope, no stamp, my name on the front in the handwriting I've come to know as well as I know my own. I was mildly surprised as they've never come early before and curious too, at what it might mean. I stared at he envelope while I put away the groceries, glanced at it every few seconds as I ate my supper, pondered it as I washed the dishes. When I couldn't stand it anymore, I cut the envelope open. At first, I thought that I had made a mistake. He'd never just sent me Hallmark before. Every year it's been a handmade, exquisite creation, a priceless treasure, a work of art. I'll admit, I was disappointed. Had he grown tired of his game? Had he stopped loving me? I was shocked at how much that thought hurt, at how much these love notes had come to mean to me.
With the first tenuous pangs of ache in my heart, I pulled the card free from the envelope, turned it over. A single red rose on a background of water-softened charcoal. Plain, stark even, but beautiful in its own way. Still, this was by far the most generic greeting I had ever received. The ache in my heart grew: this was goodbye, I could tell. Maybe he was getting married, maybe he was sick, maybe he had just grown beyond me. I'm not sure how long I stared at the front of that card, terrified to open it. Finally I had to know. I held my breath and opened the cover. A piece of loose-leaf fell out onto the table, both sides covered with that oh-so-familiar cursive. The letter began like this:

I was up all night, trying to find the proper words to say what is in my heart, but nothing would come out the way I wanted it to. I am used to having my words obey my will, but in this, when I needed them the most, they failed me. My pen felt heavy, clumsy, the words came out stilted and wrong. So, no pretty poetry this year, my dear, no flowing words. Just me and my stuttering heart.
I have wondered, over the years, if these notes mean as much to you as they have meant to me. I've wondered if you even read them, if, maybe, you kept one or two. I still remember every one I've sent to you. I remember every word for eighteen years, every rejected effort I threw away because it wasn't good enough. How I agonized over those words.
This year's card isn't as special as the others. It's not handmade, it's not terribly pretty, but in a way it brings us full circle. The first card I ever gave you said "Roses are red, violets are blue..." It's a terrible cliché, and now I'm almost ashamed of it, but you and roses have always been connected in my mind, in my heart. My mother planted a rosebush right beside my front door, and I can never come home without you in my thoughts.
I have waited, all these years, for you to break my heart by choosing a life-mate. I have waited, dreading the day when I would have to let you go. I hoped you would choose with a wise heart, choose one who would cherish you and nurture your spirit, but I knew that the day would come when I couldn't keep you anymore. The thought was more painful that I had imagined. You see, I had told myself that I COULD let you go, that you were a rather pleasant dream; one that I loved, but a dream nonetheless. Dreams must all awaken in time. I thought I was prepared to awaken, to let go. I did't realize that when I wrote "I love You" into those cards, I was writing it onto my heart as well. I didn't realize I meant it this deeply. I have fallen in love with my dream.
I have fallen in love with you, my dear, an I can no longer delude myself. I love you, and I'm not afraid of it anymore.
For the past ten years I've waited for you to leave me, now I'm asking you to stay. I'm asking you to take a chance. I believe it is time to end this game. Will you meet me, my treasure? It is time, I think.

The TeaRose Bistro, 8 o'clock on Valentine's Day. It only seems fitting, to finish as we began. I'll wait for you all night.

All my love, as ever
Yours


By the end if the first paragraph my throat was tight. By the conclusion of the letter I was sobbing unashamedly.
I couldn't sleep last night, wondering what tonight might bring. I'm going, of course. As if there could be any doubt. I'm terrified and excited and I'm so curious it's killing me. I tried on every outfit in my closet...twice. Nothing seemed to fit the occasion. Too prim, too casual, too flirty. I wanted elegant, classic, gorgeous. I went out and bought a new dress – long, slim, black in one light, crimson in another, slit to midthigh on the side. Cool, sophisticated, beautiful.
I was pacing the apartment in skyscraper heels when the roses arrived. Nineteen perfect crimson blooms. My mascara ran when I read the card:

Nineteen, my love.
Eighteen for our past,
One for hope.
I love you.

It's time to go. I'm scared, terrified, what if...? But no, No "What ifs." It's time to trust to love, to destiny. I'm on my way, my darling, wait for me.




Short story by Karen
Read 632 times
star mini Editors' choice
Written on 2007-02-16 at 18:43

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lynne cannon
very nice story ,i enjoyed reading it cheers lynne
2007-06-07