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Dear Sophie


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Dear Sophie


Dear Sophie,

How easy it is to spill my heart out to you on these pages. Do you know I think of you every day? When I rise to go to work, when I eat my meals, when I bathe, and especially now, where I sit so very often, to write you. But nothing compares to when I lay down after another day has passed without you. Your rose colored lips and golden hair are burned into my eye lids so every time I close them, I see you.

The other night dear, as I lay sleeping I dreamt I held you in my arms. I heard every breath you took, every sigh that parted your lips. I beat down the nightmares that threatened to disturb your peaceful slumber. I stared at your unopened eyes imagining how much love they would posses if they were open, and swept away any hairs that fell in my way. But when I woke dear, I was mistaken, so I hung my head and cried.

My dearest Sophie, my heart can’t beat much longer without yours by its side. But wait! Here you come now! Up the path, waving at me through the shadows and whispering my name. But alas, when I look outside I see the branches swaying in the wind and hear the whistling sounds it is making. But Sophie, you make me happy when skies are grey. You’ll never know dear how much I love you. Please don’t take my sunshine away.



With all of my heart,







Thomas


“Good morning Mr. Thatcher” said the clerk behind the counter at the General Store. “I just received a new shipment of hats, would you like to come back and have a look? I know you like looking at them.

“Mmmm” was all he replied, stuffing his bags of flour and potatoes into his sack. He turned to leave but –

“Thomas.” said the clerk lowering his voice and leaning over the counter, “I’m one of your oldest friends but I just can’t place what has gotten in to you! ever since…” he trailed off, thinking with his head in his hand until a light bulb went off in his head. “Ohhhh.” He sighed as Mr. Thatcher’s last footstep echoed on the wood floor board. Even the Bell from the door had nothing to say.

It was three and a half miles to the General Store, but Thomas Thatcher liked the peaceful walk. The dirt road was lined with huge trees that hung vines like a curtain. He liked to use the time to think of Sophie, even though every time he memory of her would hit his chest like an axe. He stooped to pick a plain purple flower that was beautiful in its own way. He held it to his nose and then everything vanished.

He was back at the church sitting turned around in the pew looking for something, as was every one else. No. he did not want to see after all. Just as he had made up his mind to walk out, the music started and there she was. She was dressed in white lace and her hair flowed down her back. Just like it always did, which was just how Mr. Thatcher liked it best. She looked like an angel, floating across the tiny purple pedals that coated the isle. The sight of her froze him like a statue. His throat dried up so swallowing suddenly became very difficult.

“You’ll regret it all someday” he whispered as a tear fell on his young, strong hand, and he rushed out as fast as he could, not allowing himself to look back.

His eyes snapped open. He could not take it anymore. He made up his mind that he would write one last letter to his beloved Sophie. When he got home he poured himself a drink, sat down at his desk, and began to write. It wasn’t unusual for his letters to run on and on, page after page, but it was peculiar that this was the shortest he had ever written.

The door slowly creaked open as Mr. Jamison slowly stepped through the door calling Mr. Thatcher’s name. He turned the corner and gasped loudly. His fingers searched for a pulse, though he already knew he wouldn’t find one. What he did find, was a bunch of crumpled up papers trapped in his hand. The letters Thomas Thatcher had never had the courage to send. He pried it open, picked up one of the papers, smoothed it out, and began to read,

“Dear Sophie,”










Word Count : 767



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