The wooden bench

She felt her fingers rubbing against the rough surface as she tried to hold the wooden bench tightly almost expecting the wooden bench to hold her fingers with the same tightness. In the distance she saw a couple walking hand in hand. The hands, she thought. The interlocked fingers, she saw.  Almost as a reflex, she saw her fingers tightening against the wooden bench again. 

It was this urge to be able to hold “that” someone’s hand, which enabled her to write to “that” someone her first letter. It did not have a name. It did not have a signature. It was not written elegantly or on some nice stationary. It did not have a send-to address. It did not even have a return-to address. It only had her fragrance as she breathed on it while writing it. It only had her touch as her hand brushed against the paper. It only had her imprint as she kissed it sealed. 

It simply read:

To my dearest,

I don’t know your name yet and I don’t know when will we meet. But I do know that somewhere even you are tightening your fingers on a wooden bench, in a hope that we hold each other’s hands soon. 

I miss you more than you may know,

I love you.