Dear Katherine

We always wrote letters.

Intimate, in a close sort of way, without being personal, like people are today.

The structure of the page was reflected in our tone.

The addresses, laid out like building blocks, forming the foundation at the top of the page. Formality, I suppose, was common, then. Though we did not write “Dear Sir or Madame,”.

I called you by your name, which was dear to me, though back then I did not realise quite how precious you were.

Dear Katherine.

We wrote of daily events; mundane, perhaps, to others. But not to us.

With mild humour and the sweetest love of friends, with innocence and deep consideration.

I marvel, now, that I never came to visit. That something happened to keep us apart.

Perhaps while I gazed at you in admiration, you said “I do” to him.

In honesty, now, I forget.

I think of you, Dear Katherine, on quiet days and wonder.

At school, before you went, we walked, alone, to your empty home. At sixteen years, yet never kissed or spoke of love. For six whole terms, we made our escape to the solitude of an empty house.

Such opportunity!

Yet we indulged in nothing more than scoffing cakes, bought at the shop along the way.

Today, I have my life and you have yours.

We never meet.

And when I sit in silence, as I do now, I am torn between wishing I had kissed your neck, undressing you with trembling hands and beating heart to take unsteady steps into love and feeling gratitude that I did not. And you did not either.

For now, I have exquisite memories, so pure and untainted. Of joy; of love; of eating cakes. And later, writing letters of daily joys and innocence, that always ended with my love.

And started with: “Dear Katherine,”.