A Word, If You Will

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Dear Tytania,
          Imagine you and I were walking together back home. It’s sunny, perhaps around midday. We stop in front of a tree, listening to a birdsong coming from somewhere in the leaves. Maybe it's summer; maybe the air is thick with pollen, and we’d sneeze and rub our eyes as the powdery stuff collects on your glasses. But we’d agree that our walk was worth it, for the cherry blossoms would at last be in bloom. Their petals would float around us peaceably, and we’d understand what this moment meant, why this day was perfect and beautiful, without needing to exchange words at all.
          But unlike this special language of our togetherness, the written word has certain inadequacies. Tell me: what do you think the tree looked like? The squirrel? What was the melody of the birdsong? How many petals did you imagine? Fifty? One-hundred? In truth, I can never know what you created there in your mind’s eye. In writing to you, I have only widened a chasm, and now we must fumble in the dark, hoping that we'll connect somewhere over this abyss of vaguery. At least, that is my hope - is it yours, too?

My dear, I can never return what I took from you.

Accept this tale as token of my apology.

Yours forever,

[ZARASTRO]

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