(no subject)

he was in every day, mr. smith (his real name). he would sit at the small table (for two) in the middle of the south-facing window/wall. by the time he had his coat off and his cane laid neatly aside, i had his coffee poured; one cream, in first. two napkins, underneath. one spoon, across the top, convex side up. deviate and risk being instructed at length. again.

he talked too much if he was asked to speak, but if let be, he was quiet. opinionated but not obtuse. he spent most of his time writing on napkins in a grandfatherly blue bic scrawl. or was it papermate.

poems. all for one woman - emma? anna? something proper and lavender sounding. he had been doing this for thirty or forty years. love poems to a woman he had lost.

she had been seduced, he explained to me once, by the man she married. trapped, she had been abused by him relentlessly; beaten, maligned, controlled and forbidden to have any contact with the young mr. smith, who was actually her true love.

she had refused his offers of salvation several times until the only contact allowed him was by mail. she stopped opening his letters after a decade. he just kept writing.

he must be dead by now. i wonder if his family (for he married begrudgingly and always spoke spitefully of his wife) found them, the reams of words folded into old napkins.

he never did let me read one.

(no subject)

"What are Ditty Boxes? These are usually little, wooden chests similar to sea chests but smaller. Sea faring men used them to store smaller items, such as sewing needles, or more valuable items, such as money, tobacco or letters from home."




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