She didn’t consider herself a writer, at least not the kind that went into the mountains to meet publishing deadlines or the ones who wrote for others behind the scenes or even still the ones who wrote for themselves under different faces and names, perhaps like the janitor we look through each day, his gifts hidden in plain sight behind an undesirable and unacknowledged lifestyle.


The writing teacher said a writer is one who writes but when thinking upon those who right wrongs she didn’t necessarily agree.  Still, she’d started writing her love story because somewhere in the underlying theme of passion was her biography and she knew everything belonged together.  Unfinished chapters sat patiently in the various nooks and crannies of her environment, a tribute to the reality that was a slowly evolving life story.

She’s a keeper of natural herbs, essential oils and ceremonial scents of Japan.  They’ve always reminded her of home, a place she knew before places came into existence and these are the nooks and crannies her writings have also found home.  Her love story sleeps in prepared saches beneath scents of calm, above intentions of joy and within the sands of peace.  

In moments of nostalgia, when she is not sure where to pick up because she’s forgotten where she left off, she gingerly unwraps the book of birds, pulls out the records of their songs securely awaiting flight along the back cover and places one in a vintage record player.  It always takes several moments for the needle to recognize the vein before it injects the room with sounds measured for its awaiting patient.

As soon as the birds began to call she answers in a very slow dance that spans several rooms to pause in the places where unwritten pages ask her to undress raw thoughts to give them the freedom she continually withdraws in her visits to the prisons of shame, guilt and discontent.  She removes an item of clothing and the record player stops where the silence calls her to mind, to mine her mind.  She looks at yet another unfinished chapter as her dancing shoes disappear to be replaced with standard issue socks that in their contempt for creativity prevent her from tip-toeing to the lips of her waiting lover.

In ceremony she finds blank pages and burns them into the sands that hold the ashes of sandalwood and patchouli.  Closing her eyes she moves into a state of prayer that is grounded by unshakable knowing.  

Her love story is safely held within and has become so powerful that it emanates from everything surrounding her.  It will never be read from front to back nor will it ever find pardon in man’s binding.  She calls to her love as the birds sing and does so in the hopes that he join her in dance so that when the music stops they come together in the silence vowing to leave prison visits behind in order to recapture their creativity upon the blank pages that have slept patiently awaiting their lovemaking to birth the promise they nurtured in a time before time came into existence.

What no one knows is that on each blank page she writes in white ink because each page symbolizes love she refuses to leave untouched so wherever it appears there are none it’s only because they live there forever in plain sight:

P. S. I Love You