what is unsaid

everything begins with the boy who is tying his shoelaces.
in the corner of his eye, he sees a young woman
who is seated on a park bench. it looks like she is waiting for someone.
she glances from time to time at a piece of paper. if you look closely,
the paper is slightly torn at the edges. it
looks like it has been folded many times.

the woman smiles softly at times, puts a hand against her cheek.
there is a desperate anticipation surrounding her.
it is a shield, an expensive fur coat. sometimes she yawns and stretches her arms
then looks around. she glances at an imaginary watch. when will
she decide when it's been long enough?

out of her bag, she takes out a knife. she holds it gently
as if it were fragile. it glints in the sun. she shudders
and puts it away. she anxiously looks around her.
the little boy has seen her. he watches her intently now,
suddenly afraid of her wistfulness, her quivering impatience.
but she sits there for hours and sometimes she forgets to blink.
she wrings her hands and gives them comforting kisses.

the boy stays, even after the world has turned a few years older.
he pretends that he is playing
with tufts of grass. he is her lone witness, her afternoon soldier.
after some time, she sighs and gets up hastily, like
she suddenly realized that she was late for an appointment.
she shoves the letter in the bag then
stands up and leaves.

the boy watches her walk away.
he thinks about the letter. he'd like to get
his hands on it just so he'd know what she was waiting for. he
believes that it will explain everything. after all, everyone,
at some point, is tired of reading between the lines.
but why do we stay, if not for the sacredness of things
that are unsaid?