My Dearest Theresa

I hope this letter finds you in a quiet moment, for I fear it carries the weight of my own heart laid bare. Forgive me, for I have let you down. You were there when I faltered, your hand clasping mine as we wandered among the Christmas trees, their twinkling lights mirroring the colors of your soul. I see those colors still—vivid, unyielding, alive. You have always sought to live within that vibrant glow, and I have long admired it from afar, wishing I could join you there. Since childhood, I have wanted to hold your hand, to walk the same paths and share the same dreams. Yet life, with its unrelenting tides, pulled us apart—you one way, I another. The sky remains blue, the night eternal in its scatter of stars, but I cannot look at them without thinking of Nathan, and the depth of a mother’s love for her only son. There are oceans between us, waves of loss and longing, yet I urge you not to be ashamed of what was. Love, as fleeting and profound as poetry, is never in vain. In two days, I have thought of you more than I have allowed myself in years. Your laughter, your pain, your resilience—it all lingers like a melody half-remembered. I feel your sorrow as if it were my own, though mine has become a ghost, haunting the corridors of regret as the years slip by. But in those fleeting days, there was happiness, wasn’t there? A spark of something pure and untarnished. Hold on to that, Theresa, for love, though ephemeral, is the truest gift we can give each other. Yours always, James McLain