With You I Could Steal Horses

Dearest Lover, Beloved Friend, 

This is the last letter that I will write to you. I cannot bear the crushing of my soul when I try to share my heart. And so, I let you sleep. 

You are the love of my life, the star on my horizon, the joy in my depression, the stick supporting, the arms carrying, the treasure at the end of my rainbow. 

I cannot exist a day without you or imagine a future without a touch from you. And your kisses...

How did the years fly by so quickly? Wasn’t it just yesterday that we met? I was a mature 28 and you were a skinny 22. No life experience, no job, no plans, but even back then the light shone in your eyes and already you were an inspiration to all around you. You made me laugh and sent chills down my spine when we touched. 

The dreaming. You dreamed but weren’t a dreamer. Rather, it was your present as well as your future reality, painted with hope and optimism on a canvas of love and righteousness. “With you I could steal horses“ - I love that expression, which you picked up from your time in Germany. You only steal horses with someone you really trust, right? Well I guess it was a compliment and took it as such. 

Do you remember the walks around the lake, first with our lazy Bernese mountain dog, then just the two of us? Our children slept so deeply that we could have walked for hours. Something about the rhythm of the walking loosened our tongues so that the words would tumble out, unabashed. O my did we talk, and imagine, and create awe-inspiring castles in the air. Nothing was impossible.

But a long shadow has fallen over me and extends to the very horizon. Are the good times gone forever? Has the laughter dried up like a river meandering through the desert? Can creativity cease to be, or is the fact of our existence an indicator that the creative spirit is hiding just around the corner and in any moment might just jump out and say “Boo!”, frightening both the shocked and the shocking.

It’s a devastating shadow. Can I trust you with the secret? Remember when I told you that Tony was having an affair and you blurted it out to Susan at the dinner party? Or the day that you revealed the birthday surprise to your Mother, three months ahead of time? I can trust you with my heart, my life, my very breath, but not with my secret.

That is why I am sitting here now at your bedside, watching the rise and fall of your chest like the waves of the sea. Would you breathe as easily if I were to tell you? Would you ever sleep again? Surely not! You would sit as I do and stare unseeing into a colourful future which is not yours to share, not ours to live to the full. For some this secret is trivial, irrelevant. But now that I am old (yes, 40 is indeed ancient), I cannot bear the burden lightly. So I do what seems to me the only thing that I can do. I muster up all my courage and pluck out the offence and put it in an envelope. Later I will burn it as one burns the evidence, pointing the finger at another. The first grey hair is now gone and finally I am free to enjoy life once more.

Carole Stolz © 2020

Word count 596: FCA