Prologue

It is funny the things our mind remembers, the way a scent or a taste can take you back to a moment… long ago passed.  

For me, it has always been my grand-aunts' grape jam; the crush of the sugar crystals bursting on my tongue when I bit through the thickly buttered bread she always made me before bedtime.  I have looked for it everywhere since, but even my own attempts have never even come close, was it the dark grapes from her vine that made the difference or the thick sugar, or the love which she poured into it while she stirred the pot.  I will bank on the last one, because I do believe that you can savour the love in the food you make for someone who holds your heart tight.  When I made you that box; when I rolled the gnocchi and chopped the onions and tomatoes into the sauce that covered them, all my love for you went into it.  And I knew you felt it, when sometime later, when you ate something you thought I could not have made, you questioned me about it, implying that it was my doing, for it had tasted just like my food. 

Taste and memory collide to remind us of times shared; for my aunt and me the rituals before bed, the stories told, they were all fused in smell, taste and heart.  I used to wonder how she lived her whole life having only loved one man, for her husband had died so long before.  Regardless every night she said a prayer for him and spoke as if he was still in the room.  I ached for her, but she always believed that they would reunite when her time came and it was all that mattered, her life was to be lived regardless.  I have been lucky, I have known a handful of women who loved so powerfully, so limitedly and without apology, that it makes it kind of ok, to love you this much.  It matters not that it was not death that set you apart from me, and that this love I have for you, belongs only in my heart… its strength guides my soul even when I wish it would let me run away.

I wonder if you taste the lack of my cooking every time you have chocolate cake.  For my part I have not been able to make it since I made it for you… that favourite recipe has become yours and yours alone, and if ever you walk the path of my life again, it shall be made again, for you and you alone.  Your passion for that cake was unequivocal, and your excitement filled my heart.

In a moment of weakness you expressed that it was not the food, but your affection for me that you wanted to share in your passion for my cooking.  You bit your tongue, but the words were already out.  Unknown to me though your life was planned and your heart already given… though my sweet… my dearest it could not have mattered… for you took my heart the day you walked into the room…

always yours,

"Lois Lane"

A.

                                                              A.

What happens?  I wonder, as I look around the room that hides my secrets, my pains, my plans.  Its sapphire blue shade reminiscent of melancholy or strength depending on the day I ask my heart.  What happens now?  Now that you have walked back into this plain, this part of the world you left without a word three years ago.  My husband’s scent still clings to the pillow beside me, and I feel a tinge of guilt through the bones, as I am about to let the sound of your name run destruction through my life again.  Again, like the day you walked in and parked your smile, your deep blue ocean stare and your secrets beside me.  God, this cannot be, this cannot ever be again, I tell my heart and my brain.  But as per the last time, my stupid heart will probably win out and we’ll mess everything up.  I am happy; I remind myself, and not the kind of 'paint a picture and hope it turns out alright', kind of happy.  I mean, the one that makes you smile in the morning and at night before you close your eyes.  I found the greatest man that ever lived, he laughs at my jokes, which already is enough to sign him up for best picture, he is full of sensitive and passionate ideas, he is a wonderful father to his brood and mine, his body, his face have always caused me to melt, but moreover we have the greatest arguments known to men and he loves me so much that I sometimes wonder if I will ever be enough for him. 

I turn to hug the dint he left behind, the breeze from the open window caressing my face, and the smell of pancakes and fresh coffee drifting from the kitchen.  Oh god, why ever did you choose to return to this place, why now, when I am happy and have finally pushed you to the back of my senses.  I love pancakes on Sunday mornings, the only day that we really have to ourselves, uninterrupted by jobs, football, dance and music practice.  Today, however, though it smells like any other day, your letter sits folded inside a book in the shelf beside me, burning bright through its margins, though I am sure it is only my guilt that can see it.  The usual craving for caffeine and sweetness is pushed aside, for I want to read your words again, and I do not want my husband to walk in on that.

I am surprised actually, surprised that you would write a letter, when the only thing that I thought you capable of was texting or email.  The generational gap between us always evident when it came to technology; I remember the day you used my camera to take my picture and how the simplicity of a push button to focus was too much for you to handle.  I remember telling you, as I did, that you were ridiculous and then holding out my hand to caress your face, to let you know I was sorry, and that I loved you.  I loved you more than I had ever thought possible, ever.  And I am not sure why I always said things to hurt you, or why I threw markers at your rigid frame.  I think, if I consider carefully, it was because I knew you would hurt me more than anyone ever had or ever could, and I wanted to keep you distant.  I wanted you to hate me, push me aside and forget me, but really I just wanted you to tell me that my imperfections were part of the picture you would like to hang on the wall. 

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The door opened with a start, though only because my thoughts of you kept me tense, and J walked into the room carrying the usual mount of breakfast goodies that he showered me with on said mornings.  Today it was french toast and maple bacon covered to the brim in syrup. 'Tell me that you are awake!', he said in a sharp, teasing whisper, as he layer the tray beside me, 'we promised the kids a road trip today, remember?'.  I did remember and I loved that he woke me up like this, but all that was running through my mind at that moment was your letter.  

     I will be in Geelong on Sunday and I would really like to see you.  Please tell me that you will come, that you     
     will be there.  I will fathom a guess that you still love boats and sailing, and hope that you remember the last  
     picture you sent me, from across the esplanade, overlooking the small pier where a few sailboat sit in the 
     water waiting to be drifted to sea.  Sunday at 2pm. yours always, A.

Yes, great, how could I possibly say no, I thought.  How could I possibly ignore it, even though you ignored my every hope to see you again.  But I am not you, I have no will to ignore you.  J, I mastered to convince myself, would understand.  He would understand... and I would after I saw you, tell him everything, of that I was absolutely certain.