TALKING TO TRASH

“Nice view of the park from here, don’t you think?”

I’m not sure to whom I was talking. Perhaps it was to the clump of paper lying near my feet.

Crazy me.

Most people would think of that paper as garbage, litter, refuse. They might be so offended at the way it marred the beauty of the park they’d be moved to pick it up and toss it in a trash bin.

Not I.

I didn’t know from whence it came and didn’t know its future. All I knew was that at this moment, it was resting on a lush lawn, soaking up the sun. Perhaps a gust of wind would blow into the lake that lay before us – yes us. It might go for a swim, no, go boating. A bit of the paper stuck up like a sail.

On impulse, I gently picked it up and sat it beside me on a park bench.

Crazy me.

I looked down at it and noticed a bit of writing peering out of the clump, just below the sail. Curious, I wanted to know what the writing was.

“Pardon me. I mean no disrespect, but I want to find out what’s written on you.”

I picked up the paper and carefully uncrumpled it. It felt good in my hands – high rag content and rich texture. The ink had flowed from a fountain pen, not some cheap ball point. The hand that held the pen was strong, if a bit shaky. I could almost feel the breath used to dry the ink.

The writing was bold, heartfelt. It read “Dearest Sarah.” The “est” was scrunched in between the “Dear” and “Sarah” – an afterthought to let Sarah know she was not just “Dear.” She was “Dearest.” The writing continued. “I miss you so much. For whatever I did or did not do, said or did not say, please forgive me. Let me ...” The writing stopped.

“Let me” what? “Let me explain?” “Let me see you again?” “Let me tell you what happened?” No, to a “Dearest” the “Let me” had to be more personal, intimate -- too much so to express in writing, even on fine paper with ink from a fountain. 

Crazy me.

I placed the paper on the bench and flattened it out the best I could. It was a perfect rectangle and bore the crinkles and wrinkles of time. Sarah was no recent acquaintance.

I went over to a bulletin board I’d seen. The board was full, so I rearranged some of the postings. There was an announcement of a “Park-Luck Dinner” that had happened last week. Sorry I missed it. I put it in a corner and placed the note to “Dearest Sarah” in the middle of the board with four push pins to secure it.

Crazy me.

I knew that when, not if, Sarah passed by this board, she’d spot it. She would know how to finish the sentence.