Whim

Once upon a time there were two people.

They knew each other a bit and had ‘come together’ as was apposite given the occurrences in their past lives.

One day he came to her and asked her to sign something: the back of a letter.

“It’s a card,” he explained.

“For me?” she asked, ever presumptuous, but right.

“Yes. But not for now” he said.

Unusual behaviour wasn’t unusual for him, but still she frowned.

“It’s for when I leave,” he said, knowing the frown.

“Where are you going?”

“Nowhere. Not yet, anyway,” he said.

“Then…?”

He was used to this, had expected it so he took the pause and turned it into his words: “One day I’ll go away. You know that, I know that. I want the words on this card to be my last words to you.”

“Oooh!” her eyes gleamed and she reached out to open the card, ever-inquisitive.

He quickly pulled it away. The look of remonstrance was enough and she relaxed back down, a little sore from the unspoken chastisement.

“Please…”

“Ok, but why do I have to sign the back of the envelope?” she asked doing so. She trusted him.

“Because I don’t trust you to keep this without opening it!” and his admission was not an insult, not showing disdain, just acceptance and fondness for her little weaknesses, her human flaws.

And she knew it: he knew her in that way. But she was persistent and he knew it. So he continued: “And I want you to know that what is written in here is what was written before now and is how I felt, what I thought at this time, and that I haven’t tampered with it. So it’s genuine.”

Whether she really understood that is not known, but it didn’t seem to be enough. They negotiated and he obtained her word that she would hold on to it, not lose it or throw it away or, worst of all, open it.

So she kept it.

And the years passed.
One day he appeared. They hadn’t spoken much, but that wasn’t unusual; each had a different life. But some things, if it can be managed, should be done face to face.

There was no small talk, the occasion was not one for it. “I’m leaving,” he said.

“What?!” she exclaimed. The simple ‘goodbye’ had turned into something a bit more dramatic, but didn’t go overboard although he realised it had got out of hand. Possibly rightly so.

Still, he bade her goodbye and asked her to remember the card, and let her know she was now free to open it. And that he wished she would.

In many ways it did not matter whether there was any card or not, anymore. In giving something it is gone for good and he had given it, so whatever happened after that was not to concern him.

But, yes, it would have been good had she seen the card and read the message.

The End.

And for you curious types? The message?

Nothing much.

Just a simple thing; one sentence.


“I hope you find happiness”