June 14th, 2002 - 10:39 a.m.

To whom this might concern.

One day, decades ago, she fell deeply in love. She had an unbearable choking ache that kidnapped all logic and sense of self. The boy was ecstatic, and together they fluttered through the turbulent mess of her childhood. He was a source of her strength. Cried for her and with her, even at her. Then she died. Was buried. Was reborn, only to die again. And so the cycle went. With passing situation and circumstance prying apart their interlocking fingers. Tiring and slowing down. Dreams and hopes faded into the background. And so it went, but despite the extreme sadness associated with parting, they are sorrowfully happy. Given the chance to erase and redo, she would not change a word nor a gesture. What was grand, shall forever remain so. She is thankful, and hopes for the best.

One day, years ago, she plucked a thought from her head, sealed it under paper, and mailed it to a dear friend. A friend so dear that one may venture to call a lover without fear of being bold. But distance and geography are funny things when coupled with modern technology; gives a sense of intimate distance, a faraway closeness. She waited lengthy months for it to arrive. Non-electronic mail requires much patience. Then, lo, the desired effect was rendered, the friend struck speechless with tender understanding adoration, and she was happy for weeks. But as all great human companionship goes, the passing of time and geography eventually distorts. So, the poor beast called friendship limped along wounded by a sense of abandonment and a mild fear of imposition, not wishing to appear overtly attached. She was left alone to suffer her joys and pains. And every few days, she wonders how he is. So, she sighs, takes a deep breath, and waits.

One day, months ago, while en route to cure boredom with a slice of torte, she stopped mid-saunter, gestured with her Indonesian cigaretted right hand at an estranged friend sitting on a park bench. �Are you I.?� she questioned. And with that, as all good stories ought to have simple beginnings, she will attempt to keep this for now. All truly good things come unexpectedly, as truly bad ones. To be gloriously comforted and contented.

One day, weeks ago, she spent forty five days with an old lover. Reminisced and felt renewed. Laughed. Realized that all of silliness eventually slips off the horizon.

One day, days ago, she lunched with a good friend. �Reckless is when one fails, and courage is when one succeeds,� she declared.

One hour, sometime ago, a gorgeous moth perched gently on the black rubber of a window edge. And with the shape of its wings, and the sombre gravity of its markings, eradicated all anxiety and fear.

One minute, not too long ago, she closed her eyes and shut off the pulsing world with her lashes. They call it blinking.

One second, her heart forgot to beat in rhythm and everything was gorgeous.

N.

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