An Unwritten Note


If I wrote a note? If I wrote a note, this is what it would say.

It would say how difficult it was to go on without you. It would say how much you were admired, that someone would so dearly want to protect you by burning your note, so that no one else would ever know your beautiful little secrets. I think it would say that there would never be anyone around to burn my note.

I think it would say how there are so few bright lights or good feelings at the end of my tunnel. I think it would say how nothing seemed the same when I lost all of my friends and made some new enemies. I think it would say how my entire life had been a whirlwind of torment and puppet strings. I think I wouldn't know exactly what I would say.

If I would write a note, this is what it would say. It would say that I loved you. I think that you were the first person who cared about me as a person. I think that you fell into the same trap that I did, a puzzle piece on someone else's board, or a pawn walking into a strategic sacrifice. I loved you. That was my ultimate secret. With everyone despicable and detestable in my life, you were the only one I could love without feeling guilty about myself. I should have recognized that from the start.

If I wrote a note, my hand would be trembling with every word I wrote. I would omit the unimportant, trifling details, and only write the things important to me. Such as why you were such a great person, and how I failed to rise from your ashes. Your shadow was so warm and so powerful that I could never fit in it, even though I wanted to spend my life there, behind you, by your side. If I would write a note, it would be long and not say anything important to anyone else, but it would be important to me.

If I would write a note, it would sound like the one you might have written. Even if that note was not yours, was never yours, I would still write it so that it fit to your image. It would say how much I was hurt by the grief that everyone caused me, that I could never make anything more of myself as a manager or as a woman, and I know that you were hurt for different reasons than I was, and even so, I fashioned myself in your image. You were a success, I know you were, and your kind heart allowed you to succeed, so why couldn't you see that? You were a success, for succeeding where I failed. Even when I knew how much you felt used, you treated me like a friend when everyone else treated me like a towel. If I had a choice, I would have spent every minute of my life by your side, laughing with you, crying with you, with you through childhood before I knew what "love" really was, with you through adulthood when I really started to understand my place in the world. I don't think you ever knew how much I needed you.

If I would write a note, it would say that I loved you. I loved you for your kind heart, your integrity, your inner strength, and your ruby-red smile, always fresh and luscious, every day. Even after you left him and changed sides, and even though I knew you were hurting inside, you kept a powerful face. And when the other him left you alone and devastated, that was when I wanted to tell you how much I adored you. You were beaten down by their stupid male machismo, their foolish pride, the pride of two evil, jealous men who never knew how stupid they were being, or maybe they just didn't care. I could never love someone like that. If I wrote a note, the last words would be "I'll always love you, Celeste." That's something I could never say aloud, not to you or to my family or even to myself, because I'm a coward. But I need to say it. I love you, and you gave me my strength, even if you don't believe me, even if you don't feel the same. And I would say goodbye. Goodbye to you and only you, because I never had the chance to say it to you when you were alive.

If I wrote a note, that is what I would say.

But I can't write that note. It's not time for me to write that note. There's still hope left, hope growing from the unlikeliest of gardens.