A Letter from Helen

In the tradition of all great romantics, she wrote him a letter. Ink on paper, envelope, stamp, maybe even the faintest hint of her scent sealed in with her words. Who can say? After all, it was in the tradition of all great romantics.

And she wrote:

In the beginning I thought that love would bind you.

And when that failed, then I thought perhaps the ties of common decency.

I hoped for the faux-steel of honor to bar your way and keep you safe, now that I could not attend to your safety myself.

Surely, I thought, you were not so divorced from our reality that your base instincts were allowed to run free, without the guiding hand of Fear.

Little boys brag about not being afraid of the dark, ghouls, ghosties, the boogyman.
Men know better. The greatest stupidities lie where there is either an excess or an absence of fear.

Sometimes we forget the latter.

It is equally to our detriment, both to cower in a corner, afraid of the world and also to forget that while we grow up, so do the boogymen.

Erstwhile figments of a childish imagination lurking in dark corners grow to be very fearsome indeed.

They are the viruses and bacteria. Toxins. Cancer. The multitude of biological insult heaped on our corporeal existences.
The brute force of assault. Rape. Chaotic machinery, twisted, now burning.

It is a fool who forgets. Who else does not fear the adult boogyman, graced with the complexity and wisdom of age?

Do we laugh at or do we pity these fools?
For surely, we can no longer love them.

As always, my affection and best wishes.
Yours truly,

Helen