I like to take this chance to say
sorry to J.F.
Some things can't be explained, it was the only way to. I shouldn't have and it was
not my intention. There's not a night that I could sleep without feeling the guilt.To A.K.:
I have a letter written for you from a long time ago and never got a chance to give
it to you... I wish you well and I'll always remember you. Miss you.
Next is written for you.
I wish our story were different. I wish it were more
civilized. I wish it showed me in a better light, if not happier, then at least more
active, less hesitant, less distracted by trivia. I wish it had more shape. I wish it were
about love, or about sudden realizations of importance to each other's lives, or even
about sunrises, birds, beaches, or friends.
Maybe it is about those things, in a sense, but in the
meantime there is so much else getting in the way, so much whispering, so much speculation
about others, so much gossip that cannot be verified, so many unsaid words, so many things
undone. And there is so much time to be endured.
I'm sorry there is so much pain in our story. I'm sorry
it's in fragments, like a body caught in crossfire or pull apart by force. But there is
nothing I can do to change it.
I've tried to put some of the good things in as well.
Flowers, for instance, because where would we be without them?
Nevertheless it hurts to tell it over, over again. Once was
enough. But I want you to hear it, as I will hear yours too if I ever get the chance, if I
ever meet you again, in the future, on the streets, or in Heaven.
What we have in common is that we're not here, I believe
you are reading, and into being here. Here with me, for the longest time.
August 15, 1999
Will K 27
Margaret Atwood ; The Handmaid's Tale ,
chapter 41. |
