Walnut Kisses In Love Letters

A time ago, Selma listened to stories her grandmother used to recite, about the grand days of youth and virility. In a frail voice and slow hand movements, the old woman spoke hours of her days with her husband of sixty years. With each story came a lesson for Selma and her sisters to learn about the ways of the world. Selma especially loved to listen to the romantic tales of how her grandmother and grandfather met, and the moments of their eternal love affair.

Naturally Selma was thrilled when she found old letters from her grandparents to each other, pages aged with memories. The attic was a place no one in the family wanted to go until finally one day Selma’s mother decided to move into the house she grew up in. As a result, the sisters were forced to clean the dreary attic, full of dusty books, old photographs and moth eaten clothes.

Among the few treasures beneath the rafters, Selma volunteered to go through the old trunk her grandmother was fond of. Inside she found news clippings, torn and worn with stories that were once current events. But deep inside, beneath other oddities, Selma found a stack of old letters wrapped in a satin bow. She recognized the handwriting as her grandmothers, old-fashioned script with loopy swirls for all her capital letters.

Quickly, Selma hid them underneath her shirt and excused herself, then dashed into her room and hid them. She beamed the rest of the day while her sisters groaned in the dusty air. The entire day she wondered what those letters might contain and if they were the letters her grandmother talked about. That night, after everyone fell asleep, Selma lit a few candles and began to read the letters. Though only four, all dated in succession, Selma read their poetry:

My Dearest Isabella,

Your kisses remind me of walnuts and tangerines.

Remember the day of our last virgin courtship? We crossed the cornstalk fields, hiding between ripe husks, glancing into our joyous faces and climbing the dirt hills toward the empty patch of forest toward the walnut tree.

I set out a blanket and some Riesling; we cuddled like the raw nuts within a walnut shell and you threw your walking stick into the tree and watched as the nuts fell to the ground like hailing stones.

I remember your laugh that day – it still warms me today. It was carefree as the child we have not yet borne. And your hair – tied in a bun, loosening each time you jumped with glee and went hunting for the walnuts that hid beneath the freshly fallen leaves. You were like a child then, full of wonder and curiosity, full of simplicity and happiness. Watching you mesmerized me.

We shared our first kiss that afternoon, under the blue sky and the autumn colored leaves. Your full lips puckered onto mine. I felt like a homeless soul touching a silk pillow. The comforting warmth melted my nervous anticipation and its familiar tinge was like a welcome home, even though our lips had never touched before.

So what has happened in these years? How has our love evaporated? I watch you now with the same passion. Your hair still loosens – in the kitchen when your bend over and reach for your pots when you are experimenting with new recipes.

I remember last Christmas when you were baking your grandmother’s holiday cookies. We didn’t pick walnuts last year; you purchased them from the market. I could blame it on the fact that you were feeling ill that month, unable to smile, only tear. Perhaps I should have taken you to the walnut tree. I could have dressed you warm and placed the red scarf I gave you around your neck and ears. Perhaps instead of a Riesling I could have made hot cocoa with real dark chocolate melted at the bottom. Remember how we used to stick our faces into the rim of the cups and bet who could reach their tongues to the bottom and lick the chocolate out?

I miss the days we played with flour, kneading the dough into the perfect consistency. I loved it when I held you from behind, as your arms flowed with precision while cutting out the cookie shapes. I used to smell your hair; it was the scent of tangerines, the ones we peeled and fed one another.

Those were happy times. But, I have not heard that beautiful laugh for too long. The other night, when we made love – it was empty. It was full of obligation, sorrow and dissatisfaction. You did try. Though I have always asked that you never fake anything with me, you have. I do not know if I am hurt because you promised you never would, or if I am pleased because you gave yourself to me selflessly. I prefer to think the latter, but then was I being selfish and how did the walnut kisses cease?

Always,
Your Fernando

--

Darling Fernando,

I was baking yesterday, thinking about the other night we made love. It reminded me of our first kiss by the walnut tree. Do you remember?

Whenever I saw a walnut I thought of our first kiss. I remember my stomach gripping my other organs and my throat was so dry I could barely swallow, but when your lips touched mine, eternity began. Your lips were soft as a silk pillow with velvety rose petals.

I remember how that kiss turned into steamy passion and we ended up making love and I couldn’t understand how a man could have such attentiveness. I was lost in a world of ecstasy and virgin sensation. It seemed we made love like that for centuries.

So why has our passion fled like the steam from my pots? I tried the other night. I know you knew and I know I promised I would never fake it – not the orgasm, but the desire. It is unfortunate that I must admit this, but I have been faking it for quite some time.

I do not understand where it changed. I believe it was last year when I was ill the month we perform our ritual walnut picking. I thought about making the initiative and asking you to take me. You probably would have said no because you wanted me to get better, afraid the outside chill would give me a higher fever. But it could have been, with hot coffee or cocoa rather than our traditional wine. I could have put on that lovely scarf you gave me – the red one your grandmother knitted for me but you were too embarrassed to admit it so you told me you purchased it at the local department store. I could have taken that wool blanket we keep on the sofa and cover ourselves when we watch movies. But I didn’t.

I thought about all of this when I was peeling the tangerines for the cookies and grinding the walnuts to a paste. I thought about how you used to come up behind me while I was cutting out the cookie dough and wrap your strong arms around me. I felt protected. When you kissed my neck and smelled my hair, chills ran up my spine and I would struggle with every move with my arms to play that you did not distract me from the cookies I love to bake.

Then I thought about how this is the second year we have not picked walnuts. It has also been too long since we have made love without emptiness. I faked my desire the other night because…I cannot say. I do not know why. Perhaps it was because I did not want to be selfish and pull away again. You have been there for me in the worst of times. You have also been there for the happy ones, so how did our walnut dreams fade?

Always,
Isabella

--

My Dearest Isabella,

Tears flowed from my eyes when I read your letter to me. I had no idea that you have been unhappy with me. When we married, I vowed to love you eternally and protect you until death separated our souls, until we would meet in the arms of God. I think back and cannot pinpoint the moment when our passion dissipated into the wind. However, as we both mentioned, the days of our walnut picking was perhaps the proximity of the beginning.

I never realized that little moments – rituals in life – could be so important in a relationship. I only wanted you to get better since I feared your illness would take you away forever. I’m sorry that I did not take you to our walnut tree to bask in the nature’s paintings and embrace you with hugs and walnut kisses.

My love for you is everlasting; I shall not consciously ever make this mistake again. Unfortunately, we have passed the time for our yearly ritual, but perhaps we can create another until the walnuts become ripe once more.

I can see now, in hindsight, that we have cooled our passion by minimizing our conversations. Remember when all we used to do was talk? My favorite times were when we sat by the fire with your favorite music playing in the background and I would read poetry to you. You would lie in my lap, on our fake fur rug and sip a drink of the season: wine in the fall, apple cider in the winter, peppermint tea in the spring and iced tea in the summer. You would complain that if we kept it up, you would gain more weight because we would feed each other cookies and cake – all which you baked. I’d roll my eyes and tell you that your beauty had nothing to do with the way you looked, but rather the way it radiated from your eyes and smile.

I’ve noticed that something has been wrong for months now but the fury of life has gripped me too strongly and I have been unable to break free. I have become submersed in work and the daily tribulations that curse us all.

Now I realize that it was those moments, those walnut picking days, the poetry readings and the moments I’d share with you while you danced in the kitchen with fresh herbs and spices – those were the little things we shared that separated us from the chaos of life. It was in these times we challenged our minds with deep conversations and learned a little bit more about one another. They were also the times when we would spontaneously embrace our souls and make love our exuberant passion. How life tests our love!

I apologize for stopping them and placing other matters on my list of priorities; you should always be first on that list. And now, after reading your thoughts I hope that we can begin anew. I have taken this week off from work and purposefully left my cell phone at the office so that I can show you how much you mean to me and open the door to your soul once more. I am empty without you and cannot imagine living with fake desires in the years we have left.

When I first saw you I was able to see myself grow old with you. I envisioned that I would wear a tacky gray or brown sweater and silly black slippers. I could see you painting by the fireplace while I sat in my overused chair, reading the newspaper with thick glasses, holding a pipe like my grandfather used to. I imagined your beauty still young despite your white hair still tied in a bun – white and thin from age, but still beautiful to my touch. I envisioned your tender hands struggling more to sketch your visions, but still determined to paint your vibrant images.
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Those years are still a long time away, but I treasure those visions as I treasure you. Let us rekindle the passion we shared and continue to learn the little treasures we hold inside. There is still so much I do not know about you but long to discover.

I will be home this evening with the Grand Mariner you love so, and I ask that you release your pain and allow me to heal that which I have wounded. Perhaps as the evening progresses we can make love in front of the fireplace and realize that neither of us had lost it, only hidden it within the walls we have built.

Forever,
Fernando

--

Darling Fernando,

I was deeply sorrowed by the letter you have placed in the kitchen for me to read this morning. Being the emotional woman that I am, I cried. I did not realize that you loved me so. On the day of our wedding, I looked into your eyes and never imagined that our passion could fade like the colors of the sunset. In the past we enjoyed the darkness by gazing into the sparkle of the glowing stars, sitting out on the porch, looking for the constellations we could recognize.

I have been thinking all day about the particular moment when it all changed, desperately trying to decipher memories that might shed light. But all I could come up with was the little things we used to do that made me feel you wanted to be with me. Perhaps our walnut picking days were the start, but it would be foolish to blame our distance on one ritual that ceased.

My love for you has not died like a candle’s flame; if we could only build more wax to sustain the glow. Remember when we laid by the fire, on that fake fur rug we purchased together? When you first showed it to me I thought it was so tacky and hated that you convinced me to buy it. But then, after we cuddled on it in front of the fireplace and you read Rumi’s poetic words to me – your whispers were verbal foreplay. I miss listening to your voice when your words spoke in prose or when we talked about what color to paint the study or discussed the wonders of time, life and dreams. We ended up making love night after night, losing ourselves in an alphabet that coiled around us like erotic strings, bound by words that provoked sensuality. Your whispers still echo in my mind but they have become distant each passing day.

Nothing brings me more joy than when we used to talk, just hours of holding one another and expressing our ideas, feeling and thoughts. With those came tears and laughter, hugs of reassurance and everlasting communion.

We have distanced ourselves into a reality that others see to be the only truth. We promised – vowed – we would never fall into the trap of life’s chaos, into the abyss of society’s slave chain, but we have. Your daily tasks have taken you away from me, your burdens too heavy to share and I have misunderstood your intentions and priorities. I do not blame you entirely because I have fallen victim too, though I cannot pinpoint a particular moment in time where this has taken place.

Your letter has opened a door that has been closed for too long. We had the key; it just became lost in the mess around us. I desperately wish to open that door again and breathe the fresh air that swirls inside. I desire to make love to you with the same enthusiasm we shared by the fire, on that rug, with passion as curious as two newlyweds waiting for the wedding day to end so that they can blend into one soul, not by words or vows, but by euphoric intercourses throughout the night. Making love to you had always been a discovery to a piece of your essence that penetrated mine. We spent days and nights in bed, feeding one another’s souls.

I remember the days we’d laugh about what we would be like when grew old: you reading your paper with a pipe in your hand and a hot cup of tea at your side and I searching the house looking for my eyeglasses only to find they’ve been on my head the whole time; we would laugh at how we promised to never become like our parents. I long to find out how if we can prevent that from happening.

I’m sorry that our dreams have faded into some closet like some forgotten coat waiting to be worn. But after reading your letter I find new hope that our love has not died but our passion only lost in the pockets. I’m sure if I dig deep I can find that which we have lost.

Perhaps this weekend, when you and I will be home, confined to our four walls for a day or two because of the blizzard expected, we can sit and rekindle our lost visions. I am open to discussions with full expectations that they will bring tears but hope that in the end those tears will be from hysterical laughter like we used to share.

I’ll pick up some Riesling and make a picnic in front of the fire. Perhaps with a little intoxication while staring into your lovely eyes we can find our way to the lovemaking we have shared for centuries.

Your dearest Isabella

--

Selma dried her tears, went downstairs while everyone was sleeping and called her husband with whom she had a disagreement with just before her family visit after her mother’s insistence she show up.

“I love you,” she said. “I love you more than I ever realized”. In his sleepy state he mumbled, “Me too. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” said Selma. “I have something wonderful to share with you.”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Myself,” she answered and with that hung up and slept more soundly than she had in years.

THE END

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