Tuesday, April 01, 2014

On the Route Less Taken I Find a Tisket, a Tasket

A-tisket a-tasket
A green and yellow basket
I wrote a letter to my love
And on the way I dropped it,
I dropped it,
I dropped it,
And on the way I dropped it.

A little girl  picked it up and put it in her pocket . . .

After the dreary rain of Saturday, Sunday morning came bright and clear. My bedroom window framed a glorious spring day: blossomed pear and cherry trees with their fluffy blooms pinned against a cerulean sky, brilliant green lawns, and daffodils. My lord, they are all the sudden everywhere, they are the flower equivalent of Canadian geese.

Ignoring my hangover, I pulled on a skirt, a tank and tied my hair back in braid. Optimistically without a hat and only my sunglasses, I bolted out the door ready to embrace the beautiful morning.

The scene belied me. I was instantly chilled, and on the almost last day of March I wondered where was the lamb as I dearly regretted my lack of  clothing. I pushed on accepting temporary discomfort; assuming I would warm up as I pressed my body relentlessly into the wind.

In the sun, with the wind at my back, I did feel comfortable but an easy turn of the road and the wind would again roar at my face and my arms were numbed, my body stung from the bitter chill. I tried to find enjoyment but five miles in  the negotiations began. After a few not so quick turns on the track I headed home and cut the course short from 12 miles to 9 miles .

 I took my less traveled route home.

And, in this instance, it made all the difference of my mood.

So funny how the tiniest of things can turn you.

 With the wind so vicious I ran head-tucked and eyes cast down. I guess I was trying to fold myself into myself--a barrier against winter's spring angst. I found brief reprieve behind a bank of Lelands and as I slowed on the uphill my eyes caught a piece of notebook paper flung in the Juniper bushes. I am not Stephanie, so I typically ignore trash but I saw my name and stopped to pick it up.

A letter!
Addressed to me!

How serendipitous!

How, novel . . .

A quick scan told me this was some sort of love letter. The mention of Mr. Morrison's class and how boring it was, also told me it was not written to me but to a differently Natalie.

Who knew there were others? Apparently younger and in high school too.  . .

 I folded it carefully and tucked it in my pocket. I was so excited. I couldn't wait to get home to read it. Even though I knew it wasn't meant for me, a letter-- a note! --is so antiquated in today's world of email and texting. And well,frankly, it took me back. I can't remember the last time someone wrote me a letter, a love letter none the less.

Again, I know this was not for me but I have, in the past, received such a letter. In fact, somewhere, I still have them. Unlike this Natalie, I kept my letters and did not toss them to the Juniper bushes! (To be precise they are piled with other various papers and photographs in a painted steam trunk in my garage.)

 With the letter burning against my thigh, I found new energy and raced home, eager to read it and share it will my brood. I bounded into my house. My house, with 2 10 year old boys--Beau and his buddy Boo,-- and Ryan lounging about. Carmella was out; I would tell her about it later.

 A letter! I exclaimed. I found a letter on my run! 
I pulled it out of my pocket and showed them.
And it says my name! 

Unimpressed. They did not so much care even a tiny bit, but I read it to them anyway.

Oh, it is so typical!

She is not so into him any more.

There is an age that boys stop writing letters to girls.
And I know that in this letter--what is happening-- is why boys stop writing letters to girls.
And I know, he is correct: she really is just not into him anymore.
Honestly? She's been done for awhile.
She just doesn't know how to tell him. Or rather, is too chicken to tell him.
Ugh, girls
Girls. They are all about feelings when it is their own. But someone else's?
 It is a bit evil.
Ah, but boys?
Not so quick to pity.
Boys will pay the girls back in their 20's.
Tit for tat.
A tisket for a tasket.

He wrote it in pencil!

 I want to erase it for him because I can imagine this boy who penned this note-- not as a boyfriend as I once might have-- but now, as my son; heartbroken, writing a note to a girl he loves.

Funny how being a parent can shroud you with empathy you might never have had.

Time. It changes your perspective.  Shifting like the wind on running route.