Windham County Observer

NOCTURNE
By
RICHARD NIEDERSTEIN

And all in a moment he was overpowered. How deep,
how strong
love could be. Tomorrow he would
begin anew. The letters were still on
the table: those too would be destroyed.

When all the house was still Ron
left his sleepless pillow and crept
downstairs. He slipped a small package
into his pocket.

Passing through the open door, he
proceeded out into the faint starry
night. The wind came in soft puffs,
swaying the loose branches of the
dark belt of trees. He listened. It
was as if the trees were breathing.

He stood very still for a second.
From the fields came the fragrance
of meadowsweet. Everything seemed
to speak, to be saying exactly what
he had heard a few hours before.
He took this for a message, a happy
omen. For the first time, he told
himself, he had touched something
to save, not to destroy it. Now he too
might be saved. He walked on
through the cornfields.

The corn was cut. He saw stacks of
it, scarlet and yellow: two shapes
whose beauty of balanced lines and
volumes seemed not accidental, but
designed . . . the composition of an
artist. Often now a vaporous opalescence
lay over the meadow.

How could a man forget? Had he
come here for escape? He must prepare
for a change. It had to be that
way. In this change, a little more
reckless than usual, what could be
found?

Now in his thoughts he saw a shadowy
figure pass before him, stopping... seeing.

How deep love was, how far down
inside one could feel it . . . running
. . . hiding. bursting in its fullness.

He remembered his beating heart
when they said goodbye, his anxious
heart that winter before: how he
had waited for the letters to read
and re-read till the folds fell to pieces.
And he thought: there was something
in him that was not himself,
something that seemed to prevail
even beyond his own resources . . .
Yes, as one grows older, it happens
thus. It must.

He was still walking. He held his
hand out as if to touch something,
but drew it back slowly. He reached
into his pocket for his small package.
He untied the string that bound
it, and fingered the letters in his
hands. This was the best way. Let
him forget the rest, make the change
complete. There must be no going
back.

He took a match from his side
pocket. Strange, the feeling .. burning
letters was an ordinary thing.
Yet he watched the flame slowly dissolve
the fabric paper to smoky
shreds and tatters; taking the old
life along with it. Perhaps it was
better that way.

It was over.

Around the fiery core the soft
wind drifted the ashes.