the letter

Her right leg dangling off the edge of the bed, she slowly loses circulation in her foot: the numbness of her awkwardly hanging extremity but a pale mirror of the numbing she feels creeping into and over her emotions and spirit.

In her lap, the letter sits halfway open now, beckoning to be read and reread for the 48th time . . . the words never change, and yet, they never cease to surprise her, either. How just a few scribbles on the back of a thin piece of celluloid can be so powerful is almost impossible to wrap her mind around. Ideas, concepts, words: everything melting together to create meaningful sentences. Or perhaps she is the one adding the meaning. Reading between the lines. Decoding what she hopes - what she wishes - is thus encrypted.

The imminent threat of tears starts as a rumbling somewhere deep down behind the place in her heart where the fondest memories of those long gone - but still dear - are kept. Slowly, but steadily, her throat starts to close up, the rational part of her still trying to keep it together lest she fall apart in front of her....what - ancient dolls and teddy bears? Even alone, she holds it back. If she can delude herself for just one minute more, keep the dam from bursting, then perhaps the curtain will rise and the studio audience will jump to its feet, applauding and commending her on a 'wonderful and realistic' portrayal of the triumph of human will over emotion.

But no. This is not film. This is not reality TV. This is real time; a slice of life worthy of note only in the heart and mind of one. One that is indeed wishing she were not sitting there, alone in the dark, on the edge of the bed, tears flowing softly and freely down her cheeks.