Dear Agnes,                 2021

          Aging is something that I have yet to do gracefully. There are days that I feel this ache and creak within my bones, like they are rubbing together in a melodic way, attempting to sing out. It’s not painful. No, not really. And I’ve heard that expression, creaking bones or aching back. But I swear to you, these bones of mine are singing. Do you hear them? I think they sing for you, Agnes. I think that my body and mind are reaching out, knowing that time is fleeting, and my days are better with you in them. 

          The kids think I’m crazy, wanting to stay in my own home. But they don’t understand the memories I’ve made here. The ones that I cling to on the colder nights when I don’t have the warmth of your smile. It might be shameful for me to admit, but pride be damned. I’m eighty-six and I will say what I want. These memories frankly have nothing to do with my kids or the life I lived here. You know as well as I do that it has been a fruitful and fairly happy life. But the memories that I cling to are the ones of you, my dearest Agnes. Those long nights I spent speaking to you and only you. The way I could pour my soul like a red wine and let it stain your mind. Let it seep into your body. And when I close my eyes, I can almost hear your voice. That sweet lilting voice that shares more love in a phrase than a lifetime of books. 

          I fear that getting old has made me more sentimental than I let on. Don’t let Clarissa know. She’ll never let me hear the end of it. She’s a good girl. A bit lost, even at 54, but her heart is in the right place. I know she worries about me in this empty house. But she could just never understand. Never understand the memories of you that I cling to. I feel you with me, sitting in my reading chair. I hear your breath on my ear as I write at my desk. You are all around me, Agnes. You always have been. It has been much more than just to have you in my heart and mind. I long to see your face, just once more. You were so beautiful. I remember thinking if I were to get hit by a bus right now, I would happily step into the street. That is how much your beauty gave me peace.

          I bet you’re blushing now. Thinking of that day always makes you blush. And I wish I could kiss the reddened tips of your cheeks. And let their heat burn my lips, branding me to you. Even as my hair grays and my pace slows, I still feel fast and free-thinking about you. I still have all these words piled at the tip of my tongue. They are always there, ready to tumble out and speak to you. A lifetime is never enough when that life has you in it. 

          And so, I propose, let us try once more. My dear Agnes. The light that has guided me through the darkest hours. Should we try again? Should we dare to sit beside each other, not separated by night and day? Should we join our hands by the fingertips rather than the pens we use? It’s okay if you’re not ready. We weren’t ready then. Not really. And if this is all we have, then it is more than a man could have dreamed. Write to me, my love. I’ll be waiting for your answer, as I always do. 

                                                                                                                                        Always, Harry

                                                               P.S. Burn After Reading 

She smoothed out the weathered creases and leaned back in the plush, green armchair. The paper smelled like tobacco and sawdust. It smelled like Harry. Agnes set her reading glasses down atop the letter and closed her eyes. She pictured his shoulders, the tweed jacket patched with suede at the elbows. She thought of his dark, inviting eyes. The way she had dreamed of them for a thousand nights that woke her in a breathless sweat. Should she dare? 

It had been nearly fifty years since she had seen him. She was not young and vibrant anymore. Her messy mane of curls gave way to gravity, tangling in a grayed clip that rested continuously at the nape of her neck. She stood and paced around the living room. The fire that was burning only supplemented the heat needed to fill the drafty home. Old paneling had been insulated long ago, a brownstone renovation that Andrew had pushed her to do. She loved the oldness of the home when they had moved in. She was young then. So very young in more ways than one. 

Agnes went to the front window that overlooked the street below. A Brooklyn neighborhood that had changed and grown just like her own children. She had watched it fight and claw with nasty tantrums. She enjoyed the peaceful quietness during the in-between years. She listened to the boisterous life that would burst from a wave of newness, exploding with anticipation of the paths they were ready to carve. She smiled with pride when the families began, hugging close the smell of milk and softer faces. 

She thought of the first time she had looked out this window when she was three months pregnant with William. At twenty-five, this home had offered her a place to build her family. Andrew could commute to the downtown office and be home for dinner at six. Agnes knew that she could never fully be a housewife with the husband and suburban colonial house her sisters envisioned. Andrew knew that he was okay with a wife that painted and danced and wrote gruesome horror stories, as long as they had dinner together. It worked for them. It was an odd time, 1968. The world felt like it was constantly shifting under their feet. So, when they were strolling along the promenade two weeks ago and turned to this neighborhood, the ‘for rent’ sign felt like fate. And then when the rent was guaranteed to be stabilized, Andrew’s signature sealed it. 

Together they could move out of her parents bottom floor, they could move off Clinton Street. Sure, this wasn’t much farther, only about a twenty minute walk away. But those twenty minutes put more distance for Agnes from her childhood than she could have dreamed. 

The day they moved in, she remembers standing in front of this very window. Maybe it was painted differently. Maybe there are more weatherproofs and modern locks. But it was the same view of the same street. Agnes placed her hand on her stomach, a ghosted memory of her past. She recalled standing there, holding her burgeoning belly affectionately and feeling Andrew’s arms wrap around her protectively. This was to be their home. Then world was theirs. The sun, the stars, and maybe even the moon. Man hadn’t even walked on it yet. Agnes had wanted it all. 

*

Dear Harry,                 2021

          If your bones sing to me, mine dance beneath this wrinkled skin. What you call aches, I call itches. My soul is tingling with electricity and life, trapped in the confines of this body. When did we get old? I’m not old.  I’m still 38 and in love. No wait, I’m 47 and slicing my divorce papers with a knife for a pen. No. I’m 29, and I’m sitting on that park bench willing your body to appear next to mine. 

          Harry, my Harry. Even after all these years, your words still have an effect on me. I grow weak in the knees, reading your lovely words. Or maybe it’s the arthritis? Ha. 

          But in all seriousness, my sweet, would you even recognize me if we were to meet again? Time is never kind to women. Even women like me. I may have made it to a ripe 77 but that doesn’t negate the havoc I wreaked in 1977. See what I did there? 

          Oh Harry, did you know that every fall when I turn back the clocks one hour, I wish it was years? I wish that I came earlier that day. I wish that I had the courage or the conviction to be the brave woman I pretended to be. You were so handsome, my breath caught in my throat. Did you know I was there? Watching from the grassy hill, letting my long skirt billow around like a protective shield? I must have watched you for hours, reading that book. My book, my favorite. You were always doing things for me, with me. You didn’t just listen to me, but you heard me. You heard my sorrows and pain and loneliness. I bet you heard the aching pull of my heart, all the way from that grassy field to your small park bench. If I didn’t love you before, I loved you right then. My heart was full the minute my eyes found you. 

          What you ask of me, I’m not sure I can give. And yet you knew this anyway, letting me off the hook before I even tried to bite the bait. What if you don’t like me 

Agnes put the pen down and stared at the scratched-out words. She was shaking and her knees were tingling from sitting too long. She wanted a drink. She breathed a heavy sigh. If this sigh could tell time, it was the hand on a clock rounding slowly and fluidly past the hours that were long forgotten. Agnes closed her eyes again. She thought of his eyes. She thought of his hands that held the book loosely but firmly. Even from a distance, she saw the intent. He was reading and listening and thinking all at once. She felt the invisible string that tied a knot around her heart that day. She knew it tethered to him and would never break. She stood to make tea. 

From her study, she padded along the rug that lined the hall. She moved past closed doors of rooms that weren’t in use, ones that sat in the memory of its previous owner. Fainted scents of roses and dust, sensory caresses that reminded her of them. Elaine. Sloan. William. Jeremiah. The children that grew like the neighborhood below. The ones that moved away. The ones that severed ties. The ones that left their past behind, leaving only the smell of faded roses to be blended with gathering dust. 

Agnes continued to the kitchen, glancing to her left at the long and expansive dining table. The three women of the house currently ate their meals in the kitchen. But little Mena liked to spread out here with her homework. Fractions and multiplication tables. Vocabulary sheets and charts of the planets. She brought the color and life back into this townhouse. A place that had once been loud with laughter, crying, yelling, and screams. Love and pain. Mena had her earbuds in, the music coming from the small phone on her left. Amazing what changes a lifetime brings. 

Agnes proceeded to the kitchen and placed a kettle on the stove. She pulled a floral teacup and saucer from the cabinet and set a bag inside, wrapping the string around the curved handle twice. Once the kettle steamed and screamed, she calmed it by switching off the flame. She poured the boiling water with grace and practice. Then, rattling only slightly, she took the teacup and saucer and shuffled back to her study. 

Sitting at the writing desk, she sipped the herbal tea, letting the warmth rush over her chest and down her torso. It wasn’t the drink she craved but it was the one she needed. The house was quiet, Mena in the dining room with her mind closed out from the world. Mathilde still at work and then a fitness class or something right after. She wouldn’t be home for hours. The grandfather clock rang out from the front hall. Four chimes. The windows in the study we beginning to darken, the only view being the patched strip behind the house. Unused lawn furniture, haphazard lights zig-zagged across the top of the fence. The glass glowed with a heavy hue, preparing for the earlier sunset with a deep sigh of relief. Agnes sipped another round of strength, letting the bitter herbs rest on her tongue. She flexed the old and thin fingers at the end of her hands. She picked up the pen again. 

          What will you think of me, after this image has been built in your mind? You talk of my beauty but I was just 29 when you saw me. I hadn’t been beaten by the heaviness yet. Hell, I wasn’t even aware of how strong I was, carrying all that weight in the first place. I am lucky enough not to be alone here, I have Mathilde and her beautiful daughter, Jimena. There are times when I sit with them at dinner and feel a little heart swell. My Mathilde came back to me. She blessed me with little Mena and their infectious smiles to louden my quieter days. 

          And yet, I don’t want to be a coward, Harry. I want to meet you in the middle of my street, run into your arms. You say your bones creak. Well then, I’ll break all the bones in my body for that crushing embrace. Okay. I’ll meet you. What’s fifty years and two lifetimes running parallel? I knew I was yours, that day in 1972. Maybe I knew in 1968, feeling the pulse of this house drawing me to the heartbeat of your love. I may not be the brightest bulb in the bunch, Harry. But I do know that if your bones are singing, and my bones are vibrating, maybe we should meet in the middle for at least one dance. Write me the time and day, and I’m there. You know I love to dance.   

                                                                                                                                       Forever, Agnes

                                                               P.S. Burn After Reading 

Agnes leaned back and looked at the finished letter. When she stood, it was with uncertain legs. When she folded the paper, it was with shaking hands. When she placed it in an envelope and licked the edges, she tasted the fear but also excitement. She wrote his address with conviction and comfort. Sealed with a stamp, she placed the letter next to her now-empty teacup. 

She went to the other end of the study and stared along the cluttered bookshelves that lined the walls. Agnes fingered used and loved spines. She tapped the tops of trinkets and knickknacks. Her hand settled on a book, hard and older than her. She slid out the heavy literature and brought it back to the desk. 

When Agnes opened it, the pages gave way after 100 sheets to a carved hollow. Bound in a black ribbon, she reached in for a pile of letters. Faded and yellowed with time. The sloping handwriting was all the same, only changing with the age of the writer. Carefully, she untied the ribbon and laid it delicately. She shuffled the letters until she found the smoothest one. It was rubbed raw from the caresses of constant care. Constant hand-holding. Constant love and affection given to its contents. 

She took the letter back to the living room and placed it beside her reading glasses. She poked the fading fire and added a small log to encourage its growth. Once more, she settled into the chair and replaced her reading glasses. 

My Aggie,                 1972 

          You are quite possibly the most beautiful creature I could ever behold. Though we did not sit side by side, I felt you all around me. There was something swirling inside me that just knew you were there. I can’t tell you how long I sat on that bench, reading the words I know you love, understanding that you would be beside me if you could. But you were right. Temptation would be far too great for the both of us. If I had you within arm’s reach I would never let you go. I know that now. Maybe I even selfishly knew that when proposed this meeting. 

          It had been a while since I was in this park, at least ten years. Thank you for taking me back. I missed the sounds of children playing in the grass, the boats bellowing out along the east river. You truly picked the best day for us to spend together. I sat there for hours, just perfectly content. I imagined you next to me, your hand resting in mine, and our hearts beating quietly in a rhythm only we knew. 

         I know I was to leave after my “shift” was over, but I couldn’t go without seeing you. At least not without a glance. You are the only woman that I have fallen for, heart and soul without so much as a glimpse at your face. I already knew you would be pretty. You speak so pretty, and your heart is beautiful. But my god Aggie, you are a knockout. When my time was up, I lingered through the walking paths. I circled back after ten minutes, careful to stay behind the bench’s view. I didn’t want to break the rules you set; I didn’t want to make you run away in fright. 

        I think my heart actually stopped when I saw you. Whatever image I had crafted in my head until now was shattered by the sheer force of your realness. I saw this wild, unruly mane of auburn curls tumbling down a slender back. I stared at the slope of your lovely neck, aching to kiss it. You wore a black ribbon, tied in a bow right where it met your collarbone. You were looking down at your lap, too distracted to see me watching. 

         When I dared to circle around the path, I felt like I was on a rotating platform, watching an artwork slowly reveal itself in full. I think I held my breath the whole time, I was so scared my willpower would give way and I would run to you, the world be damned. Each new reveal was like another heartbeat for me. I saw the softness of your blushing cheeks. I wanted to run my fingers alone your perfect jaw. I looked at the little bump in your slightly crooked nose, broken in high school from a cheerleading fiasco. And then when I was across the way, directly in line of you in all your radiance, my feet refused to move. Even from where I stood, I knew you were quietly crying. I just knew. You were holding my jacket, the tweed one I left behind for you. I wanted you to have it Aggie, honest. If my arms cannot hold you while your tears fall, the ghosts of them can keep you safe. 

         Sweetheart, please don’t be sad. I know that our love isn’t ideal and that the worlds built around us make it seem impossible. Someday, I just know that I will be with you. It may not be right now. But I will wait. I have waited this long for a love like ours. I have lived 38 years without seeing what my heart looked like, bloodied and beating outside my chest. But I know now that you are it. You are my forever. I love you, Agnes. And I am grateful every day that you read my letter, that you wrote back to me. I am still in awe of the rarity of you. I will wait for that. I will wait for that sad, sweet, beautiful girl on the bench, her curls tumbling around her face. I will wait. I will. 

                                                                                                                                        Always, Harry

                                                               P.S. Burn After Reading 

Dearest Harry,     1984 

          I can’t leave him. I just—I can’t. I’m not strong enough. Andrew has been here with me through my episodes. He saved our children from my rages. He has been a saint of a man, guiding my hands from the bottles I keep clutching in my grief. 

          Harry, I know that I am full of empty promises. I am a worthless shell. It has been 12 years and I’m just not ready. I may never be ready. I can’t in good conscious destroy this family more than I already have. I have scars from my falls. They have so many scars that I can’t erase. The way William looked at me, his breaking heart just about shattered my will to live. I was ready to swallow all the pills I had been using to numb the days of unhappiness. Why am I full of all these things? I feel the pain of the world around me, I let the loneliness in like an old friend that is up to no good. I haven’t danced in years. Harry, I’m scared. I’m scared that I let these dark thoughts swirl around me so thickly that they blind me to what I’m doing to the people that love me. My children hide from me. I let them. I hide from myself. My husband loves me despite this ugliness I have brought into our home. 

        Perhaps this is our own doomed love affair. If it can even be called that. Harry, you have my heart. You always will. But it’s a rotten one at that and you might want to toss it away. Sometimes I think about Vronsky and Anna, the cautionary tale of a woman that leaves her family for love and passion. She destroys the curated world around her for a fantasy that eventually consumes her. But what if Anna had stayed? What if that destruction was just as inevitable? What if it was her love and passion and heart that were corrupted from the start? No matter where she went or what she did, she was too ruthless in her search for happiness. And she would take down everyone around her no matter the cost. And it wasn’t her fault, it was just in her nature. It was this natural poison that she carried hidden within her, that she never even stood a chance. Maybe we—I never stood a chance.   

                                                                                                                                        Forever, Agnes

                                                               P.S. Burn After Reading 

Dear Aggie,                 1970 

         I have never felt the slowness of the postman until now. I wait for your letters like they are the medicine to my pain. There are days when I catch myself wondering what you look like, staring at the women that pass by on the street. Are you with them? Are you near me? 

         This letter has to be brief; I could only steal a few moments away from Lorraine. I know you hate it when I say her name. I know it’s not out of jealousy but rather a settled sadness. If I had known you were out there, waiting for me to love you, I may never have married her. I may never be the kind of man that writes love letters to a woman he’s never met. I may be the kind of man that can say I love you to his wife at night with full truth. I may never be the man worthy of either of you. 

        But Agnes, my Aggie girl, I can say with absolute truth and honesty that I love you. These last two years, I feel like I’ve been reborn. Your words wrap around me like a warm hug, day in and day out. I can’t really explain fully how this came to be. I have never seen your face. I have never felt sparks between your hand and mine. But it is just something that I know. I feel like you are the only other person that has been able to see and understand me. It is like we are two burning stars in a sky of others. But we circle each other, drawn to the fires we bring. And if we get so close, we might consume each other. But maybe there is a galaxy out there, somewhere, where our stars would just burn brightly like a beacon. And it brings us together, forever lighting up the darkest of skies. That is how this love feels for me. And I don’t think it’ll ever be snuffed out, 

                                                                                                                                        Always, Harry

                                                               P.S. Burn After Reading 

Dear Harold Brown,     1968 

          Hello! My name is Agnes Franconelli, and I found your letter. I thought this was a wonderful way to pass down new ownership of this beautiful home. Was this room your study? We are turning it into a nursery, my husband Andrew and me. 

          It was such a treat, to come across this letter of yours saying hello. A little about the new owners: my husband works in Manhattan for a marketing firm. (I think.) I am currently pursuing artistic endeavors; I’m enclosing a horrible story I’ve written for you to reference. I like to write and paint mostly, but almost always, I love to dance. Have you heard Lady Soul? I highly recommend you put down this letter, go out to the shops to for a record copy, and put it on IMMEDIATELY. I’ll wait. 

         Ready? See how much better your life is with this music in it? There is truly nothing like it. You know, I grew up not too far from here, over on Clinton Street. Wouldn’t it be funny if we had crossed paths for years and just never knew it? Funny how that tricky little fate works. But don’t you worry, I’ll take good care of your old home. It is beautiful and wonderful, and I intend to keep it that way! But please tell me more about you? I’m intrigued by your postscript. Burn after reading, such mystery! I will oblige, but why? Are you a secret spy? I would so love to become friends with a spy, such a nice addition to my collection. 

         What was it like growing up in this house? In this neighborhood? I would love to hear all the great (and terrible) things, I’m a sucker for a good story. 

                                                                                                                   Your newest friend, Agnes 

                                                               P.S. Burn After Reading 

*

Agnes watched the seasons transition again from her window. She watched the sun open up and stay longer into the day. She watched the legs come out to play, hidden so long under pants and tights. She watched the smiles widen with sunshine. She watched the streets become gated off, giving way to the kids and people walking in the street. It was a spring production of the best kind. Rounds of applause and laughter. Encore, encore. A summer appearance felt just behind the next curtain rise. 

Weeks went by without a letter in the mail. She saw the sloping scrawl on each envelope, only to realize her mind was playing tricks. Every now and then she gathered her collection from the study to re-read his words, to remember that it was real and that it is real. Mena was home for spring break. They went roller-skating down by the pier. Mathilde took into the city, to the Angelika to see Shanghai Express. The sat for dinner together every night. Time passed. She waited for his response. Her courage was slowly seeping out of her each day that went by. 

Dear Agnes,     2022  

          My name is Clarissa Brown-Foley. I am Harry’s daughter. I found your letter in his pile of mail after we moved him to the hospital a week ago. My father never told me about you but I’m sure that was his business and his choice. He was always a very private man, kind but kept to himself. I’ll admit I’ve looked in vain to find another letter from you, to truly understand the woman that I am writing to currently. But it appears that my father really did follow your instructions to the letter. He must have burned them all after reading. 

          That I guess makes the most sense as to why I never heard about you until now. But I can see from your letters that you are a very dear friend to my father and have been for quite some time. It is not my place to judge or try to understand what the two of you shared. I have known that love comes in many forms and that life has a funny way of putting people in your path when you least expect it. 

          It is a heavy heart that I write this letter because I’m sure you have realized that I write what my father cannot. He passed a few days ago. A cold turned into pneumonia that he just couldn’t fight anymore. And I’m sorry to say he never got the chance to answer your letter. I will say that I did read it to him and that your words brought a small, contented smile to his face. He was very tired but stayed awake through three full readings of your letter. I think it gave him comfort. He never told me fully who you were, but I knew that it was a rare smile from my father. Not many things could produce a smile like that. And when he finally passed, I know that you were on his mind. I know it from the last words he spoke before his heart slowed to a stop.

          I can’t begin to understand how you feel or presume that you would even like to respond to this letter. But selfishly I would like to ask for you to consider continuing to write to me. Or perhaps, if you would like to meet me at that park bench you mentioned in the last letter. There is so much of my father I never got to know, never got the chance to understand. I would like to know now. I would like to meet the woman that can bring such peace to a man that has hardened from a long, hardworking life. I would like to meet that other side of my father. I’m willing to listen. I’m willing to set aside any preconceived notions or judgements. And if meeting is too much, I would settle for another letter. I would happily pick up the legacy of this correspondence, just to get a glimpse of his life.

          That may be too much to ask of you from one stranger to another. I respect if you decline these favors or even never respond to this letter. But please consider. Below I will enclose my mailing address. I wish you all the best. It was lovely to meet you, even in the briefest of forms. 

                                                                                                                       Most Sincerely, Clarissa 

                                         P.S. My father’s last words were ‘burn after reading’. 

Agnes crumpled to the floor, releasing an uncontrollable sob that stole her voice from her throat. She clutched at her chest with the letter close in hand. She had lost her chance. She had never taken the chance. 

All these years, being in love with a man she was too afraid to fully love. Even after she got clean. Even after the faithful wife Lorraine passed from cancer. Even after she let Andrew go and live the life he deserved. After all the so-called obstacles and excuses they made, that she made. She never went back to that bench. She never sat on the same day at the same time with the same man she wanted to spend her life with. She never took the risks and been the brave artist she claimed to be. Her life is content and sweet but not happy. All these years she had let the fear and self-deprecation hold her back. And when she was finally standing on her own, the ground was taken from beneath her. She felt the air leaving her lungs. She felt her bones quiet, no longer vibrating. The song that called out to her silenced forever. 

Agnes placed the letter from Clarissa aside. The hollowed book lay open next to her, the words of Tolstoy cut and jagged. She slowly and methodically began to remove that black ribbon. Unfolding each letter with care, stacking them together. She stood and carried them to the fire, still burning for the chilly spring evenings. One by one, she tossed them in. they curled and burned. Holes piercing through years of love. Singed edges eating at the grief and longing that filled her belly for so long. The confessions folded into each other like Russian dolls, fitting perfectly into their final form of ash. She held the last piece, the last letter. She read once more his words that started it all. That burned so bright in her life of darkness. 

Dear New Homeowner,     1967 

           Hello and welcome to Montague Manor! Just kidding. We ain’t fancy here. My name is Harold Brown and I used to live here. I hope that this home brings you a happy life, maybe happy children? My own childhood here was fairly good. Few scrapes and bruises but that’s Brooklyn for ya! 

          If you’re new to town welcome. Brooklyn is the best. Hands down. My wife Lorraine and I were just ready for a change, ready for something that was fully our own. I hope this home does that for you.

          You may think this letter odd but bear with me because I’m an oddball. I have an affinity for history and storytelling. And I thought what better what to connect past to present and all that in between than with the passing down of homes? Don’t you ever wonder who lived where you live? Well, wonder no more, dear friend. I’m extending a pen-pal offer to exchange a story for a story. You may blow me off and say this chub is off his rocker. And I say, that’s okay! But if you’re a willing participant, I’ve included my newest address. If you’re a secret murderer, please disregard. If you know what really happened to Marilyn Monroe, can we compare notes? 

         I look forward to swapping our histories, new friend. Enjoy the house. The attic likes to creak at night. But don’t worry, it’s not rats. Just my Aunt Polly’s ghost. 

                                                                                                                     Sincerely, Harold Brown 

                                                               P.S. Burn After Reading 

Agnes’ Song

These Arms of Mine Otis Redding

Bookish Quote

“He was afraid of defiling the love which filled his soul.” —Leo Tolstoy | Anna Karenina

Connect with the Authors:

Twitter: @NYC_hours

Instagram: @newyorkcityhours

Vryn: Personal @vrindaphotographs

Allie: Personal @allisunshine3; Bookstagram @theresinkonmyhands; Bookstagram Newsletter theresinkonmyhands.substack.com

Paint the roses red; time has no hand to hold when you’re dreaming through the New York City Hours.

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