COVE

[Return to Sender]

Dearest, 

I may not have much, my days long and arduous for so little pay, but I had enough to buy you this. I even spent an extra nickel for postage so I could know that this little book made its way safely into your arms, beholden to your gorgeous eyes. I passed by it in a Macy’s, you see, the last place I would expect to find such a treasure as this. I was making my way to Times Square, as I know how you so adore the Concord Bookshop, and had a mind to pick something up for you from the 59¢ table, but stopped at the department store first—I’ve found runs in every pair of stockings I own, would you believe it? But stockings be damned, I saw this little thing peering up at me from their (limited, I admit) gift book selection. 

The cover caught my attention—I think you might know why. You have the most gorgeous eyes; the bluest sapphire could hardly compare, yet the cover of this book comes almost near enough to touch, textured and adorned. The gilt pressing reminds me of that perfect ring of gold that encircles your left pupil, how brightly it shines on the clearest autumn day.

 Part of me, a selfish part that longs to hold you in my arms, did not want to send it to you; I keep pieces of you close to my heart always, the brooch you made for me, your embroidery—and this…this is just the right size to tuck into the breast pocket of my coat. But I could not keep it. I am afraid that would be unbearably selfish, as I know how you adore the illustrator. I recall how your brother brought you an old copy of the Pall Mall Magazine on his return from Oxford, how you coveted Sullivan’s illustrations, sought them out in every bookstore you could find when you learned he had turned to illustrating plays. 

I took the liberty of flipping through this little book, I hope you do not mind. I thought we could share of it upon your return. Your love for poetry is infectious, my love, the way you savour each and every word; I thought this would certainly strike your fancy. The margins of each stanza are so deliciously large, perfect and waiting for your annotations. There is another version as well, tucked in the back; this book is truly made for you and your literati heart, stanzas to savor and annotate, yet further words to pore over in their entirety. 

I am reminded that your brother brought as well that book of Keats you have practically worn to bits and—see here! “The Nightingale cries to the Rose / That yellow Cheek of her’s to’incarnadine.” Keats’ nightingale  appears over the hills, her sweet song never so sweet as the breath that passes between your lips, yet she cannot help but remind me of you. “The Bird of Time” is truly cruel in her indelible passing, yet as she passes I know my time with you draws nearer. I shall “look to the Rose that blows about us,” thinking “‘How blest the paradise to come!’” when the timetable of the train schedule turns to the date, the hour, the minute of your return. 

I hope this gift finds you well in your travels. I ache to hold you in my arms once more. My love, return to me safely, with this little token of my adoration clutched to your breast. 

Yours always and truly, 

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