Last year, just four months before my thirty-ninth birthday, I discovered a small bundle of letters and a journal that had been hidden away for more than a century. I read them, devoured them, captivated by the unresolved secrets they presented. As I read, the journalist came to life for me, her story having uncanny parallels to my own. She was real. Her family was real. What had become of them? I committed myself to picking up the threads and following them to wherever they would lead. I had no idea that doing so would change the course of my life! This is how it happened: My best friend, Kathy, and I were browsing in a small antiques store. While Kathy looked at jewelry, I wandered toward the back of the store, where I spotted an old sofa with rose-patterned upholstery, carved wood trim, and dainty legs with little claw feet. I was drawn to it. I’d never had a particular interest in antiques, but as a commercial designer I did have an appreciation for art and design, and this sofa had both. It also looked lonely sitting there in the corner without even a table or a lamp for company. It was begging for rescue! When Kathy finally found me, I had already made up my mind to buy it. “Sara, that … that thing looks uncomfortable!” she said. “Yes, Kat, it looks uncomfortable, but I can fix that.” I pushed my hand down on one of the old-fashioned spring cushions. “See? The support system has deteriorated. It’s lumpy. I’ll remove the springs and have them replaced with smooth padding. Then it will at least look comfortable, even if no one ever sits on it.” Kathy rolled her eyes. “But why? What’s the attraction?” I had no answer. All I knew was, that piece of furniture had spoken to me, had called to me. And, yes, I knew that replacing the springs with padding would destroy the sofa’s antique value, but I didn't care. It was going to be mine! Just then a salesperson joined us, and I asked her, pointing to the sofa, “Does it have provenance?” Secretly, I imagined it belonging to the wife of an English lord or duke or earl … “No, dear. It’s a Duncan Phyfe replica.” Again, Kathy rolled her eyes. “Oh, my,” the lady said. “Did I just talk myself out of a sale?” “Not at all.” I looked at the price tag and offered her fifty dollars less. After all, it was a replica. I could not imagine, at that time, that its value to me lay outside the realm of antiques. Way outside! Three days later my purchase sat proudly beneath a Jackson Pollock print in my modern living room. When Kathy came to visit, she pointed to it and laughed aloud. “I think you’re crazy, Sara, but that’s part of what makes you my very best friend!” ~~~~~ On the following Saturday morning, with the sun shining brightly overhead, I spread an old sheet on the floor of my second-story apartment balcony; and, one at a time, I took the three spring-cushions from the sofa, carried them outside, and placed them on the sheet. Carefully, I cut the stitches along the bottom edge of the first one and removed the springs and feathers without too much trouble. Then I folded the fabric and placed it neatly in a box to take to the upholstery shop. The second cushion also gave up its springs fairly easily, but the third yielded a surprise. When I turned it over, the fabric on the bottom had been sliced through the middle, end to end, and lightly basted back together. I snipped it apart with the scissors; and, tucked inside among the feathers and coils, I found a velvet-covered diary, and some very old letters bound together with a faded blue ribbon! Fascinated, I took the “treasure” to my dining room table and carefully set it down. I could hardly wait to see what the pages would reveal. The diary was fragile and beautiful, but I set it aside temporarily, in favor of the letters, still in their envelopes. As I untied the ribbon that bound them, a single folded paper, stained with age, fell from among them, and I opened it with gentleness and care. At the top in a flowing hand was written: Rabbie, ye express me thoughts exactly. Gone but never forgotten, no regrets, only lingering bits of joy and pain. S. Was “S” the author of the journal? From my school days, I recalled that “Rabbie” was the endearing moniker bestowed on Robert Burns, the beloved 18th Century Scottish poet. Lending credence to my memory, a few lines from one of his poems followed the opening sentiment. They were beautifully copied in the same lovely handwriting. As I read the first two lines, my breath caught in my throat: Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, and then forever! And as I continued reading, my heart gave way to a poignant memory that twenty years could not erase. His name was James Mackenzie. I called him Jamie. I loved him then, and I love him still. Always will. Our parting was mirrored in the poem: Had we never lov’d sae kindly, Had we never lov’d sae blindly, Never met—or never parted— We had ne’er been broken-hearted. Thine be like a joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, forever! Jamie and I had “loved blindly,” parted with a “fond kiss,” and also with broken hearts. Forever. Unlike the words, no regrets, that “S” had written at the top of the page, I had many regrets among my “lingering bits of joy and pain.” The ink on the final line was blurred. The aged stains throughout the poem had surely been made by heartfelt tears. And now there were even more tear stains. … My own.
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