Letters of an Unrequited Love

Dear Maurice,

The flowers that you sent were enchanting, my darling. Wherever did you find such an exquisite winter arrangement? The colors look brilliant and dazzling in my boudoir. I placed them gingerly in my Grandmother’s antique pewter vase in hopes that she would not scold me if she finds it missing from that special cabinet she keeps under lock and key.

You must have overlooked the card that usually comes with flowers sent in such a romantic fashion. No matter, my dear Maurice, I knew they could only be from you. No other gentle man that I know has such thoughtful and tender romantic ways. I would feel less graceful if I neglected to send a thank you card, but dear Maurice, you forgot to tell me the forwarding address in Paris. I shall have to await your return to the states to thank you in person.

I was enchanted by the notion that you picked each flower personally and asked the florist to fashion the arrangement to perfectly compliment my boudoir. You only visited that one night Maurice. How observant you are, my love!

The purples represent our passion of that night while they match the brocade draperies hanging from my bedroom window. We spent hours just lying together gazing at the moon’s light upon the lake outside my window. What an enchanting night it was, Maurice. I shall remember it forever.

Do you remember the perfume that I wore on that night? You said it reminded you of lilacs in early spring once the dew moistens them just before the dawn. Lovely. Delicate and fragile yet with a subtle appeal. That is how you described my perfume and the boudoir gown I wore that night. Both the color of lilacs and the smell made you hungry with tender passion, Maurice. I quiver at the memory and I long to feel your breath on my neck again the way that you kissed me that night.

Will it be long before you finish your business in Paris? I could pack a trunk to join you so you could extend business and pleasure in one of the most romantic cities on earth. I would bring the lilac boudoir gown and the perfume. I’m blushing because I thought about buying one of deep crimson as a more daring companion to the first. You would like that, wouldn’t you Maurice?

Once you told me that your secret desire is to make me blush the color of crimson and secretly watch my eyes while you take me in the deepest throes of passion. Do you remember those passionate words that you whispered in my ear that night, Maurice? I shall not forget.

Something like butterflies tickles me deep within these days. I think it is just the emotion of being in love with you, my darling. And the longing to be close to you yet you are so far across the ocean and we cannot touch, except by our hearts.

Yes, I am certain that is all that it is. Mother made me some chamomile tea to settle my fluttering stomach. Maurice, I can barely eat this past week. It’s dry toast on my breakfast table and I do well to finish the full portion. Do you suppose I am lovesick, Maurice? Are you feeling it, too?

Grandmother told me it would pass or she would fix me her remedy for the vapors. She told me that women often get too sentimental and it upsets their dignities, if you know what she means. Aunt Vanessa whispered to Mother something about me being too young to be left alone in such a delicate condition. I am uncertain what condition that would be, Maurice. Do you think she has drank too much of Edgar’s wine that she imagines my condition delicate?

It is no matter. I have the beautiful flowers that you sent and the memories of the lilacs and the lake in the moonlight. I shall endure until you return or send me a letter of love poetry like the beautiful sonnets you recited that night. I feel a little melancholy so I shall bid you a good night and pray that your return to me will be hastened by destiny.

With all my love I remain,

Infatuated with my darling Maurice.

Sophia

The Family Picnic

Family picnicking under a tree, originally uploaded by State Library of Queensland, Australia.

As Fall Advances

Dear Midnight Diary,

As the temperature chills and the autumn leaves begin turning colors of melancholy, so does my heart turn inwardly to prepare for the winter of introspection. I am ready for the warm fires by the hearth. Aromas of the hot apple cider that Mother used to make surface in my memory. How I long to sit by the fireside and listen to Mother's stories as we sip the hot cider from Grandmother's press.

It was a good apple harvest this year. The cider press is an antique from my great-Grandfather's youth. I love it so. Melancholy impresses upon me ever deeper as I long to return to those days of my youth. The family was much closer in those days.

Mother encouraged us to write poetry and practice our needlework and baking skills in those days. Mother was a wonderful poet, though she never boasted.

If a heart could burst with longing, mine is surely ready as I think of the dear ones that have traveled on from this earth life. I miss them so. Some days I wonder how I am able to continue living without my parents and grandparents. Life with them was so filled with the art of living.

These days seem to be filled with remembering. Perhaps that is the great lesson and hence, the irony of life. Years advance much too rapidly in my opinion. Youth is fleeting when all those days with a bustling growing family enriches the moments beyond overflowing. Too fast flown away they come and fly more quickly than the sparrows who seek a far off refuge in winter, not seen again until springtime. In this case, the spring time comes when I leave this earth to join my loved ones in that far off place.

The apple cider is still delicious but the fire needs another log. Mother's rocking chair across the room seems to be keeping cadence with my heartbeat. I just know it is she who makes it move slowly rocking as I gaze longingly across the room where she spent many hours crocheting a new baby sweater or an afghan.

Yes indeed, Dear Diary, Mother knows when I am thinking of her even now for she comes to spend this time with me. Her Diary was filled with memories of my childhood. I joyously and tearfully leafed through the pages when she passed on. For weeks, I sat in her favorite rocking chair, the one where she sits now visiting in that invisible spirit body that used to dwell in her lovely physical frame.

I miss you mother. Dear Diary, let the secret stay with you until some day, my daughter unlocks these pages and reminisces somberly as I once did. May she smile when she gets to the part that tells how I rejoiced at her birth where I wrote in my diary how it felt to hold her tiny body close to my heart. I laughed and I cried all at once. I love you dear daughter. Please remember that we will all be together again someday.

Dear Diary, I bid goodnight as the fire is long spent and only embers remain. Mother's ink well has dried from over use and my bed with that last quilt she made for me beckons like her motherly embrace.

Till tomorrow, may God keep us all in remembrance.

The Midnight Writer

Remembering When

There was a time when writing was more than a hobby or a "job", it was both an art and a custom. Look back to the Victorian days when ladies spent time being schooled in the finer arts of etiquette, fashion, fine cooking, needlearts and keeping a regular and proper diary.

Envision refined ladies dressed in fine silks and satins with large dangling curls in their hair, sitting with their full skirts at a desk or bedside table scribing the days events. The ink well smells of oils that emanate the room, give the task an air of archival significance. The words written in most delicate hand writing style were composed in proper handwriting with upper and lower case rules observed, syntax to perfection, sentences in proper order, "i"s dotted and "t" 's crossed.

Poetry and superb prose described the days events along with the hopes and dreams of a young woman's life, the memories of a grand ole dame, and the secrets of both...contained on exquisite papers hidden under lock and key...only for the eyes of "Dear Diary".