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From Sweet Sorrow & Bitter Apple

The yellowed envelope
found under loose attic floorboards
beckoned me.
I picked it up,
blew away the dust,
read the name,
Harry McMasters,
first owner of this house,
now over one hundred years old.


My hands shook as I drew out the folded letter,
as I slowly opened it,
a lock of hair fell to the floor.
I piece of history about to be revealed,
typed on a single sheet, dated June 20, 1910.
"My Dearest Harry," it began.
"I sit naked before my typewriter,
searching for words
and the keys to put them on paper."


I felt I had invaded this couple's privacy,
a voyeur of an event that had happend
almost a century ago.
My curiousity was aroused, I continued to read.
"I have missed you so
after our last meeting -- it was too brief.
You have taught me about my body,
allowed me to unleash my passion,
excited me beyond my wildest imagination."


"Now we are apart --
I sit here naked, no longer a virgin,
longing for your kiss.
My body cries out for your tender touch.
I would give myself to you freely,
opening myself to you once more,
if but for one night."
There was no signature,
only the words, "Sealed with a kiss,"
and the impression of the writer's lips.


I carefully refolded the paper around the lock of hair,
slid it back into the envelope,
and returned it to its dusty resting place under the floorboards.
I have often wondered if they ever met again.
I only hope that they had.