Hearts in Darkness
July 13, 2009
Bay Shore, ME
“...Today I am happy and life is every thing wonder full. My eyes still have stars in them that got caut there in my beatiful jorney in my dreams. My heart is full of sun light and love for the world and every thing will all ways be wonder full for me.”
Tears sparkled in the azure eyes of the man reading those words. The lines near his eyes crinkled as a trembling smile bowed his soft mouth and the tears spilled down his cheeks. An obviously bright 6-year-old girl, full of wide-eyed hope, had written the journal entry in 1970. The man wondered if he had ever felt that full of joy and optimism. He had been a reasonably happy and imaginative child, born into a loving, supportive working-class English family, but the little girl who had penned those amazing lines had been a living fairy tale. What if such joy as she had portrayed could be possible in this world, the man mused. If everyone could live in the mindset of that hopeful child, what a wonderful place the world would be.
“What are you doing?”
A woman’s voice, shrill with accusation interrupted the man’s thoughts. His cheeks flushed with guilt as he put the little diary adorned with princesses and butterflies back on the nightstand where he’d found it.
“Tiry, I…” the man started, but the disheveled figure before him cut him short.
“That’s mine,” she said angrily. “It’s private. You have no right to be looking at it!”
He looked at her sadly. She had been through a great deal and he was sorry to add to her distress. Her moss-green eyes contained none of the glimmer of hope that his eyes retained, however dim that hope might be. Her reddish-blond hair was dull and lusterless. It showed dark at the roots and was streaked throughout with gray. Her skin had an unhealthy pallor from a recent bout with pneumonia. Still, though stoop-shouldered and paunchy, he thought her beautiful. He realized that she was more upset than angry and he hoped that his touch would reassure her. He stroked her cheek tenderly.
“Am sorry ‘bout that, Teresa,” he said, though his accent made it sound more like ‘Treesa’ and Terry almost giggled in spite of herself. “I saw your little diary and couldn’t help but have a peep. And I was mesmerized by what I read. I not only ‘ad the’ opportunity t’meet a magical wee lass from long ago, but y’thoughts reminded me o’ me dear Emily as well.”
July 13, 2009
Bay Shore, ME
“...Today I am happy and life is every thing wonder full. My eyes still have stars in them that got caut there in my beatiful jorney in my dreams. My heart is full of sun light and love for the world and every thing will all ways be wonder full for me.”
Tears sparkled in the azure eyes of the man reading those words. The lines near his eyes crinkled as a trembling smile bowed his soft mouth and the tears spilled down his cheeks. An obviously bright 6-year-old girl, full of wide-eyed hope, had written the journal entry in 1970. The man wondered if he had ever felt that full of joy and optimism. He had been a reasonably happy and imaginative child, born into a loving, supportive working-class English family, but the little girl who had penned those amazing lines had been a living fairy tale. What if such joy as she had portrayed could be possible in this world, the man mused. If everyone could live in the mindset of that hopeful child, what a wonderful place the world would be.
“What are you doing?”
A woman’s voice, shrill with accusation interrupted the man’s thoughts. His cheeks flushed with guilt as he put the little diary adorned with princesses and butterflies back on the nightstand where he’d found it.
“Tiry, I…” the man started, but the disheveled figure before him cut him short.
“That’s mine,” she said angrily. “It’s private. You have no right to be looking at it!”
He looked at her sadly. She had been through a great deal and he was sorry to add to her distress. Her moss-green eyes contained none of the glimmer of hope that his eyes retained, however dim that hope might be. Her reddish-blond hair was dull and lusterless. It showed dark at the roots and was streaked throughout with gray. Her skin had an unhealthy pallor from a recent bout with pneumonia. Still, though stoop-shouldered and paunchy, he thought her beautiful. He realized that she was more upset than angry and he hoped that his touch would reassure her. He stroked her cheek tenderly.
“Am sorry ‘bout that, Teresa,” he said, though his accent made it sound more like ‘Treesa’ and Terry almost giggled in spite of herself. “I saw your little diary and couldn’t help but have a peep. And I was mesmerized by what I read. I not only ‘ad the’ opportunity t’meet a magical wee lass from long ago, but y’thoughts reminded me o’ me dear Emily as well.”
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