Letters of Spring

"Isn't life simply beautiful?" I begin saying. "I had a dream last night and I saw the most lovely flowers and birds! Oh, the birds could sing and-" 

"That's nice, sweetheart. Would you mind getting some milk from the grocer?" Father replies back in the same tone that he’s answered with since the time I was five. I’ve learned through several attempts that it is no use speaking back. He has fairly large ears but lacks the ability to listen. 

I leave our humble bakery and ride my worn out bike to the grocer down the block. We aren’t poor, but we do not have money to throw away on unnecessary luxuries. Father often gives up hope due to this, and the creases in his forehead and his eyes that droop a little more every coming morning reflect this. I, however, am a strong believer that a miracle is waiting around every corner. Besides, I don’t understand how anyone can despair on a morning like this. When the birds chirp and fly fearlessly and the sun smiles upon everybody regardless of if they smile back. I take a deep breath in and inhale the fresh aroma of spring through the thick scent of the butcher shop, the laundromat, and the small houses on the street. Ah, spring. The eve of new beginnings and changes. I am completely in love with spring. It uncovers all the secrets and love that is masked as grief in the winter and buried under piles of snow.

Riding down the bridge to the grocery store, I am extra observant. It always seems like all of my senses are heightened when spring comes around. I get off my bike to walk slowly and smell the roses, which are starting to come out. The winter was harsh this year, and large piles of snow rebel against the sun attacking them viciously. That’s when I see it. The small rectangular corner of a drenched piece of paper sticking out of the side of the largest snow pile. I pick it up and brush off the snow. What a strong warrior the paper is, to withstand such a winter. A small red seal, concealed with what seems to beㅡmmm, honeyㅡholds the letter safe inside the envelope. I rip the seal off with reckless abandon, with curiosity as my defense for this invasion of privacy.

It’s a quite simple message. Nothing extraordinary or eventful, like I’d hoped. “Keep dreaming, my dear” the letter wrote. Now I would normally brush this off as a lost letter to a loved one or some sort of joke, but it was the first day of spring, and something in the air was telling me that it was more than that. Still, who would wish to write such a letter? “Keep dreaming, my dear”? Who could “my dear” possibly be and why would she ever stop dreaming? Does anyone ever even dream in this town? It always seems like I’m the only one. 

I return from the grocer with a carton of milk and set it on the flour covered counter. There’s clearly only one reasonable course of action at this point, which is to find the author of the letter and return it to him. How I’m going to find the person who wrote this letter, I have no clue. A good place to start is to ask people that I know, so I set out to do that. 

The laundromat looks at the letter for half a second, shakes his head, and moves on with his day. It’s quite alright. The peculiar couple who live in the small house across the street stare at the letter for what seems like an eternity. They solemnly inform me that they have no clue who could write this. The lonely woman who lives beside them and spends her days doing the laundry and sewing admires the letter. She tells me that she would recognize this quality of ink anywhere, as it is the same one she uses. My inquiry leads me to the fine printing store quite a distance away. I ask the old man there if he has sold his ink to anyone interesting recently.

“Business has been scarce but I remember the name and face of every customer I’ve ever had” he ensures me. Hope fills me up. 

“Would you be kind enough to give me a list of everyone who bought your ink within the past six months?” I ask. Seeing as his store is empty, he goes through his records right away. 

“You bring this back to me, girl.” He says, handing the paper to me. 

“Yes, most definitely.” I reply and run off excitedly with my new lead. Of all 37 people on the list, more than half of them live in far away places, which makes it unlikely that they would drop the letter while walking through the bridge. I make it my mission to visit the remaining people. 

By the time I am down to the last person, my hope has diminished to a grain and I am unsure of how much more rejection I can handle. I knock on the bright red door of a small home. A young boy answers it. I show him the letter and he tells me that he is unsure, but his grandfather may know. His grandfather shakes his head as the disappointment rushes to me. 

It’s all I can do to stop myself from losing hope. Perhaps spring isn’t as magical as I once thought. Maybe the sun is simply the sun and turning the corner only means turning a corner. I reflect upon my day in the nearby cafe. That’s when the boy approaches me. 

“Excuse me Miss, but you seem quite melancholic, so I was hoping to join you and your lemon pound cake?” He speaks in a genuine tone, one that I’m not used to hearing. I motion for him to take a seat across him. “So what’s been troubling you?”

“It’s a bit hard to explain, but I’ve seem to have found a letter and lost its author.”

His eyebrows raise and his eyes light up. He bursts into laughter. My cheeks turn red with anger.

“What, do you think it’s funny?” I say, appalled. 

“Oh no, quite the opposite actually.” He replies, realizing he’s offended me. “In fact, I’m in a similar situation.” 

“I doubt that. How so?” I ask curiously.

“You see, I write letters. With no recipient in mind besides who destiny decides. I write letters using the pot of ink my father gave me and the pot of honey from my mother and whatever paper I can find.”

My eyes light up as well. “Keep dreaming, my dear?” I ask with a small voice, trying to contain my hope. 

He smiles back. The widest smile I’ve ever seen someone make, and nods. “Keep dreaming, my dear.” I smile a wide smile back.

Perhaps spring does uncover the secrets that winter hides.