“If you must reread old love letters, better pick a room without mirrors.” ~Mignon McLaughlin, The Second Neurotic’s Notebook, 1966
Today I found the letters–
the ones I wrote to you and you to me–
tucked in a box of mementos in the basement.
Words we wrote when we were young and so in love
(although if one reads between the lines,
he might sense the uncertainty, the hesitation
hiding there in the midst of those sweet words).
The letters telling a story surely not ours
but about some fictional characters,
a story written by a romance novelist,
a story expected to have a happy ending.
Doors were opening for us then,
like lures pulling on our hopes,
doors we thought would still be there
after we created a future together.
We did not know then
that the future waiting for us
was not the one we wanted.
No, we were too young to know
what the ending would be later,
later when it was too late for dreaming.