The notes from Jane began coming only days after she moved off to the west in her search for peace and joy. They continued for years without discernable pattern. I might not hear from her for a month and then get two notes in a week. It was very rare to go more than a few weeks in between contact. Sometimes, it would be a postcard or a short note usually written on a scrap piece of paper and stuck in an envelope. The envelopes would show return addresses that included such things as “Under the Blue Moon”, “By the Gray Rock”, “Back in the Middle Again”. Postmarks were almost…

I wish I had taken more pictures of Jane. It is so silly, looking back, that I did not, for she was certainly photogenic. The few good ones that I do have, I really can’t share. Not that they are “bad”, but most are . . . well, artsy. That’s a good word. It is not an exaggeration to say I have taken thousands and thousand of pictures. That includes almost every place I’ve ever visited, lived, spent time, and, for sure, everyone I have cared about. But few of her. I really do not have many regrets in my life; for sure, far fewer than I should. This one…

Jane called late one night. She was quiet but mentioned sitting outside in the moonlight. Then, she said “I need you to read something for me. Remember that poem you wrote about watching me in the moonlight while I slept? That’s what I was thinking about as the moon was making my skin glow. Can you read it for me?” It took a minute to dig it out of the file where I kept all my poems. As I flipped through them, I was thinking of that night, not long after we had started spending a lot of time together. I wrote it sitting in bed with the moonlight streaming…

I have quite a stack to get through and I know there are others I have not found. Then, too, there are a few that I can’t seem to get myself to type. They have to be here at some point but the memory is too raw right now. I will get to them when I have a day filled with strength.

Most of my time with this has been spent retyping the notes from Jane. They are mostly short snippets of thought. There are a few longer ones and I certainly have a lot to add to the story. Those are long pieces and they will clarify much of the mystery. I promise some of those are coming soon.

A woman I have known for a few months asked one day about “that woman who left that haunted look in your eyes”. She didn’t ask what happened to her. For some reason, she was just curious about how we met. She asked a couple of questions, each time referring to “that woman”. That woman had a name. Her name was Jane. Once, many, many years ago I took one look in a pair of green eyes surrounded by a mass of red hair and fell instantly in love. Okay, maybe it wasn’t that quick, but for sure I was thunderstruck at that very moment. We were dancing the first…

Yield to the Foolish Tides of the Heart If truth must be told— and oh, how cruel truth can be— then let it rise like an untamed tide, drowning the years in waves of longing. For time has never dulled the edges of this ache, nor softened the weight of what was lost. I drift, night after night, into the past, where golden moments still shimmer, untarnished, where your laughter lingers like a melody unfinished. Memories do not ask permission; they flood the quiet hours, unbidden, arriving with the hush before dawn, between the wreckage of reality and the dream of what could have been. If only… if only… We…