The letter
A short story
The glass polar bear looked at her from its place on her desk. So beautiful as if made of ice, transparent and cold. Every time she looked at it she felt bad for its agony and helplessness.
Every time she looked at the letter she felt the same emotions. For different reasons. The letter said it all, what they’d had was over, it was empty. A letter, so unusual these days, why had he written to her? Maybe because it took longer to get to her, much longer, putting off the truth of the situation.
A text message would have been so simple. Quick and undeniable. With the letter, it gave him time to think, write, express what he felt. It was a work of time and thought, that was the impression this letter gave her and she was grateful for that. It obviously wasn’t a rushed decision, no, it was considered and kind, but absolutely final.
The words were wistful at times, angry at others, apologetic at the end. He had always been careful with his words, not like her who would say the first thing that came to mind.
She smoothed the paper, saw the words dance, and wanted to rip it up. But it was a letter, the first she had received in so many years. Now, part of the history of her life, and to be kept and remembered. As much as she hated what it signified she felt that it was something she should keep, the words so well chosen.
Like the words of George Orwell, “If people cannot write well, they cannot think well, and if they cannot think well, others will do their thinking for them.”
Remembering these words the letter became ever more real, resounding, right. Like the polar bear, she had nothing left to say.
++
The walk was long, the afternoon blustery, but she was determined. Constantly pushed and buffeted by the wind she put her head down and walked on. The thrill of this walk was the last corner, the prize waiting as she rounded the curve, her excitement rising, and she stopped as she always did to look at the sea. Today it was grey and heaving, waves crashing on to the beach furiously. The seagulls flying jaggedly and exhaustingly as the currents of air pushed them around in their constant monitoring.
She walked on until her feet began to sink softly in the sand, reaching the the limit of the waves, standing and watching as the water tried to reach her feet. She watched intently the movement of the constant incoming waves, rushing fast and insistently, crashing up and over, the foam sinking softly into the sand as it washed ashore. It was a movement that held her hypnotically, removing her thoughts, cleansing her mind.
She became aware of a different wave every now and then. One that did not follow the pattern of the others, but was thwarted in its journey to land. It started off strongly and proudly but seemed to run into conflicting currents ending in a swirl of foaming water, so that it never made it to the beach. She began to look for it, see it form, watch it fall apart, come to nothing, feeling a kinship.
The watery sun was dropping in the sky, time to go home. She walked hurriedly, almost running, propelled along by the wind at her back now. As she approached her house she felt the first drops of rain, a storm was on its way.
++
The polar bear was warm in her hands, smooth and perfect. That pose so typical of these bears, forever watchful, immense, powerful.
It was thundering outside and the rain came beating down. She looked at the letter and resisted the urge to read it again. She knew what it said. She put it in a drawer of her desk under some papers, away from temptation.
She sat down with a glass of wine, fascinated by the water streaming down the window, watching the flashes of lightening and listening to the crashes of thunder, at peace now. Her life was about to begin again, she knew she had the inner strength.
She smiled, realising at last that the letter had brought not only fury and confusion but also relief and quietness.