Flora

He had not been expecting a letter. They let her write a letter? He stood in his gravel driveway, fondling the standard business envelope adorned with doodled flowers that overshadowed his nondescript address: 2112 White Pond Drive. Sometimes he mused that it was the address that made her crazy , because they didn't live anywhere near a pond, and even the clouds-which one expected to be white, of course-seemed always tinged with gray.

Paul maneuvered around the overgrown hedges and lumbered to the top step of his old porch, where he sat, studying the illustrated ink garden on the envelope. He slid his index finger beneath the glued-down flap and winced: he'd sliced open his skin as though he'd run it across a honed blade. He positioned his lips over the seam on his finger in order to stop the blood from leaking out.

He stared at the flowers Marlene had doodled-so many of them, so upright, erect with promise. He examined the whorls, the pointed leaves, the fragile stems depicted by thin lines. What had inspired her to cultivate a flower garden like this? He imagined each small ink-petal and leaf fertilized by her diseased mind, just another product of her madness.

Paul removed the letter and a tiny sigh escaped him as he smeared a bit of blood over its white surface. For some reason, the sight of umber-on-white triggered a memory of Marlene dancing barefoot in their small kitchen.

"Dance with me, Paul!" Marlene had asked, stretching out her thin, pale arms. Her auburn hair swirled around her head and her eyes gleamed like a child's. "Remember how we used to dance?" There were fragments of pottery and cheap china all over the floor, and she couldn't avoid stepping on the shards as she rocked in a tuneless waltz. The blood marring the white linoleum floor and Marlene's vibrant hair were now a bas relief in Paul's mind. He couldn't remember the color of her shapeless night gown, or the china pattern that she'd destroyed that day. Not that any of it matters now, anyway. Paul hasn't had many visitors since Marlene's departure, so he hadn't much need for china.

Paul took a deep breath and studied his letter.

My dear, dear Paul!

Things are OK here. It took some getting used to, because I wasn't sure if I could trust them, but it's OK. I have a window in my room that overlooks a courtyard. Sometimes I get to go out there and I touch the bark on an old dogwood and think about you. Sorry I didn't write to you before. I wrote you a lot of letters in my mind, if that helps. I sent them over to your mind and hoped that you could read them in your dreams.

I know that I am going to be here for a long time, Paul. I hope that eventually you'll be able to come and visit me. Privileges like walking in the courtyard, or having visitors, or sending letters, are things we have to work for here. You can see that I got a pen to use, now. I'm so happy just to put my words on the paper and let them come to life for you. Because I miss you. I miss your curly brown hair, and how your blue eyes crinkle up when you are worried and happy at the same time. I miss our life. Yet I know if I got to see you again, things would be permanently altered, like a life that was twisted just a bit in a kaleidoscope. Just off-kilter. And there's a part of me that's afraid to see the Paul that you have become, because it's been about seven months and that's a long time to twist yourself out of proportion.

So. I am sorry for things that happened. You know. The fire, the pills. I'm better now. Time isn't unfolding so fast for me here. There's a certain comfort in that.

I hope to see you or hear from you Paul. My husband.

With love,

Marlene.

Paul read the letter three times, hearing Marlene's quiet voice each time that his eyes passed over the words. His brown eyes were filled with tears that refused to fall, and when he quietly returned the note into the festooned envelope, the happy flowers shimmered and danced, as if caught in a light, gentle breeze.