To My Dearest

To my dearest,

It has been far too long, has it not? It appears humorous to me to be posing such a question, as it occurs to me that I am in no position to be asking as such, for the answer is apparent. I left, without leaving a word, for my conscience could not take what happened. It is time you knew the truth of the matters between us.

I am not a single man. And my mother is not sick; in fact, she isn't even remotely dying. I'd wager a month's salary on her being able to run laps around the bukid and still have enough energy to go milk the goats afterwards (with a smile and a pep in her step, mind you).
You must understand this. What we had was something special, or else it would never have happened. Alas: There is a difference between what we feel, and what we have to do. And my family must come first. It is a sad story and one that I do not recount with joy or pride, for I had done them a wrong turn. I abandoned them, in an attempt to escape responsibility. To start anew. And just when I thought I had found it with you, I had a change of heart. I had to return. You must understand. This wasn't easy for me either. It took me all this time to work up the courage to write this letter to you. I could not make the same mistake twice. I decided to man up to the situation and take things up from where I left them.

I'm sorry,

____________________

She withdraws the letter from her gaze. The woman stares blankly into space.
She is enraged. But she doesn't let it show. She folds the letter neatly and replaces it into the envelope with such care, that no one would have thought it ever to have been opened. She tucks it equally as neatly into the deepest recesses of her purse as if it was the One Ring itself, destined to be thrown into the fires of Mount Doom. She exits the post office that is disguised as a pharmacy. The medicine is too expensive for most anyway. She walks down the dusty roads, past the palm trees, past the patty fields and the children helping their parents on the farms. She doesn't mind them. This woman has something more important on her mind. She has a purpose, a mission. And it will be fulfilled. It isn't anything grandiose. Just something she has to do, despite what she feels. She arrives home. Her husband is asleep. And before the little shrine dedicated to the virgin Mary in their home, she kneels and lights a candle. She carefully takes the envelope from her purse, and places a gentle kiss on it. Then abruptly, as if the envelope had suddenly become something ghastly and wicked in her eyes, she holds the letter out to lick of the flame, and the flame embraces it. Not suddenly, but little by little, like a wine taster savors a rare Cabernet or Merlot. She looks on satisfied. It is done. The memory and feelings passed on through the baptism of fire. They have been let go. She has another life now. Despite what might have been. She knows now there is no turning back. There is acceptance in her soul. It may not be ideal she muses. But it is a life. Indeed. There is a difference between what you feel and you have to do.