Not until I’d written the last word of what follows, did it occur to me use the title of my unpublished novel. But that letter has been read — by a few, a very few — and will be safely forgotten unless someday someone summons it into the light. Come forth Lazarus! And he came fifth and lost the job.
The Smiling Eyes of Children
Let’s say you’ve come to think of yourself as an unread letter. You wait on a dusty old table by a window in a room no one uses anymore, or languish in a drawer stuffed with unsorted archival material. All you need is a hand, a curious finger or two, for your life to undergo a miraculous change. A sigh. A sharp blade. A whisper. A voice. A what have we here? It’s silly, I know. Oh, yes — as silly as what a face feels the instant before it is touched. Even sillier — letters are snowflakes that take a lifetime to fall. At the end of that lifetime, you land on the tongue of a child just learning to read. And so you decide you will gladly wait a little longer — forever, if necessary, just as you always and already have. And then, you melt.