Good Things Come...

It was the kind of day artists and poets lived for.

Bleak, gray and slightly chilly.

The leaves had all abandoned their posts on the tree limbs and now littered the cobblestone streets below, kicking up with every little gust of wind and dancing to a new spot on the path. The clouds hid the warm rays of the sun and cast the village in shadow as its inhabitants, bundled up against the sudden cold, moved lethargically through their work.

One of these inhabitants was a very old man. As he walked down the streets of his childhood home, his weathered hands were stuffed deep in the pockets of his trench coat and his head bowed against the wind. The scarf around his neck billowed behind him like a scarlet cape as he made his way up the main street, passing storefront after storefront in quick succession. In every one of them, the image was the same. People were daydreaming out of windows, absentmindedly cutting hair or pouring another cup of tea to distracted patrons.

Although this was the village of his birth, no-one living there could tell you anything about him or his family. Not by choice mind you. It was just that he took every opportunity to keep people at arms length. He met every jovial "Good day." and "How do?" with a 'hrumph' or a sneer. He sat alone in the village church every Sunday and never said a word to anyone. Every day he walked to the post office only to return home empty handed. The neighbors whispered amongst themselves, spreading hearsay and inventing wild and fantastic tales as to who he was, desperate for any sort of theory to explain his existence in the village.

But as far as anyone knew, he had always been there, he had always been old and he was not a very friendly man.

He made his way, as was his custom, to the post office with a scowl on his face. Those he passed or those who saw him barely turned to acknowledge his presence anymore. He shuffled up the steps to the post office and pushed through the door, grumbling at the tinkling bell above his head. The postmaster turned to see who had entered his shop and upon seeing the old man, a big smile spread over his face. The old man froze in the doorway, completely taken off guard by this unusual reception. Wordlessly, the postmaster went to his shelf and waved his finger from left to right, reading the names on each of the parcels before him.

Suddenly, the postmaster's finger stopped and with a smile, he took down a small package wrapped carefully in brown paper. Turning back, he set the package on the counter and smiled again. The old man slowly approached and took the package in his hands. It was perfectly wrapped, corners well creased and tied up with string. The old man's eyes drifted to the label which read, 'From Me to You, Mr. Thomas Archley'

He looked up at the postmaster with an inquisitive brow. The postmaster simply shrugged in response. With an awkward word sound of thanks, the old man left the post office with a bemused expression.

He made his way down the windy streets towards home with his package clutched tightly to his chest, passing the same boring storefronts and the same boring people with a new spring in his step. As he opened his front gate and went up the path to his cottage, he could feel excitement brewing in his chest. The front door unlocked and he went inside, shutting his door quickly behind him,

His house was small, cramped and dark. The front room contained only a rickety chair and a lopsided table in front of a cold, empty fireplace. An antique clock sat on the mantel piece, noisily ticking to fill the silence. The room across the hall held only a bed with a small chest at the foot and a dresser with a pitcher and washbowl on top. There were no pictures on the walls, no decorative antiques passed on from well meaning family members, just a sad shadow of a home inhabited by a shadow of a man.

He hurried to his rickety chair, set the package on his lopsided table and sat down to look at it. The grey light streaming in from the small, dusty window barely illuminated the room as he pondered the mysterious parcel. With shaking hands, he reached for the strings and started to pull. The string fell away and the paper parcel sat quietly on the tabletop. Again, with shaking hands he reached forward and unwrapped the package. A little wooden box, intricately carved seemed to shine even in the dim lighting of the room. A red ribbon peeked out from the lid promising some kind of treasure inside. His fingers gently gripped the silky ribbon and lifted the lid of the little wooden box.

His eyes widened as a crisp, white letter came into view. The old man timidly lifted it from it's resting place and began to read:

'Dear Mr, Archley

I hope this letter finds you well. Our little village can be so forgetful at times of it's history and the very bloodlines whose stories are woven so tightly into the fabric of its existence. I see you walk past my front garden every day and think back on the way you used to be. Remember how I used to meet you at the gate in the evenings after dinner? I know my parent's never approved. Not a day goes by that I do not wish I had married you the day you asked me.

I returned to our little village last year after my husband passed. I wanted to come visit you so badly, but that first day I saw you walk past my home, I knew the years had not been very kind to you. I hope that you have held good will and love for me all these years. And I hope I can make amends for the way I broke your heart so many years ago.

If you receive this letter in good humor and wouldn't mind accompanying this lady on a turn about our village, I hope to see you looking out your window across the street towards mine.

Your neighbor and oldest friend,

Elizabeth'

The old man's head raised immediately to look towards the dirty window, As if he was twenty again, he rushed to the glass and peered out at the house across the street. The little white house he passed thousands of times before seemed different in his eyes now. Bright, cheery and well kept with a rose bush woven perfectly around the trellised gate. And there, standing at the front window, was a vision of beauty. His heart leapt into his throat as he grabbed his cap and scarf from the hat stand and hurried out of his cottage to the little house across the street.

The sun now shone down on the sleepy little village, full of memories and nostalgia. A little old man in a cap and scarf walked arm in arm with a little old lady in a baby blue cardigan. The other villagers stopped to stare at the odd couple, almost unable to recognize the smiling man who used to scowl so much.

It was a perfect day.

The kind of day artists and poets lived for.