To:
Ms. E. A. Caldwell
N. Bishop Ln.
Auburn Town, NY.
Dear Ms. Caldwell,
I must admit that I have written and discarded this correspondence nearly eight time since having set out to write to you. The words that I wish to say are accounted for and apparent, but are difficult to organize and present clearly without producing mere ramblings.
Some years ago you and I once knew one another closely. If you fail to recall, we met in a restaurant on Bowery St. in the gas lamp district. My exact description eludes me at the moment, but yours shall never vacate my memory. You were talking on the payphone at the rear of the restaurant and I was sitting at a table with a number of business associates having lunch. You ended you phone call and walked across the room to your seat at the counter where your sandwich and glass of milk sat untouched.
For the life of me now I cannot know what drove me to unseat myself, never excusing my exit from the guests at my table. I will never know what factors motivated me to approach you and ask you for your name.
You spun in your seat and your eyes met mine ... the moment cut me like the deepest slice from a fresh razor. I placed my hand on the counter for steadiness and began my introduction. It was short and likely difficult to interpret, but I was nervous and feeling awkward at my unusual actions.
I remember asking you if you'd care to go for a walk with me and you agreed, you leaving your lunch and me parting from my guests. We walked into the spiraling oak leaves blowing down Bowery Street's sidewalks. We spoke of greatness. I informed you that I was a postal carrier and that I lived on the north end of Auburn Town in a small flat that I leased from an elderly woman with one arm. You told me of your cat and your hopes to find an apple pie recipe that would produce results unlike those of your current recipes. I informed you that I would haven eaten anything so long as it was prepared by your hands.
Some years have passed Ms. Caldwell and though I am certain you'll find it difficult to recall the events described in this letter please make every attempt to remember the seconds we shared... we lost contact, we simply lost contact.
I don't know what love means, but I pray that the ninth version of this letter will somehow possess you with my soul and create in you a fire that will burn in my direction in the same manner as that Autumn day on Bowery Street.
Respectfully and Always,
D. W. Dillard
P.S.: I will post myself at the cafe counter on Sunday at four o'clock p.m. I will gladly wait until five o'clock sharp. I will wear a blue sweater in the event that you do not recall my face.
