Cutler 02 - Secrets of the Morning

with his poem. He had it in an envelope.
    "I'll let you read it by yourself," he said, backing away, "and you can come by any time you like to tell me what you honestly think about it. Remember," he said in the doorway, "be honest." Then he left.
    I looked down at the envelope in my hands. He had even sealed it shut. I went to my bed and lay my head back on the pillow and opened it slowly. He had taken great pains to write it in an old English-style script. He might not be a talented musician, I thought, but he certainly had artistic talent. He had entitled the poem "Dawn."
     
    Darkness grips the world in an iron fist.
    Even the brightest stars can't loosen the hold
    The black fingers of night have on the world and on me.
    I am alone, imprisoned within the shadows I cast.
    No one can hear my cries or my tears and no one cares.
    I am like a bird without wings.
    Despondent, I sit and wait without hope.
    And then, you come.
    You rise over the horizon, your smile so bright and so warm, the darkness has no chance.
    It melts like ice in your warmth.
    Your rays touch my face and I throw off my shadows and grow back my wings.
    Then, like a bird reborn, I fly away and soar in the clouds.
     
    I looked up quickly from the poem, but Arthur was not in the doorway. He had kept to his promise and retreated to his room, where I knew he waited anxiously. For a moment I was unable to move. These words were beautiful, but so revealing. I was frightened by the depth of feeling he obviously had for me. What had I done to cause him to feel so strongly about me? Was it merely because I had paid some attention to him and not ridiculed him? I didn't ask him to love me or to tell me his deepest secrets.
    Even though I had done nothing I could see that would encourage him, his deep expression of love made me feel as if I had betrayed Jimmy. I knew he wouldn't like to hear how much another boy liked me. What do I do now? I wondered.
    I could just hear Trisha say, "Tell him it was nice and walk away." But Arthur was too sensitive and perceptive for that. I had to be what he knew I was, what he hoped I would be. I had to be honest.
    I rose from the bed and walked slowly to his room. The door was shut as always. I knocked softly.
    "Come in," he said. He was sitting by his desk, the lamp on, the glow on his face making his face appear more like a mask.
    "Arthur," I said, "this is a wonderful poem, a lovely poem. I don't deserve it."
    "Oh yes you do," he said quickly.
    "Arthur, I must tell you something I should have told you earlier. I am already in love with someone. I've loved him all my life and he loves me. We've made promises to each other that we would wait for each other. I haven't told many people this," I added quickly, "but I trust you with it just as you trust me with your secret."
    He simply stared at me, that face of his still looking more like a mask, unmoving, not even his lips trembling.
    "I'd still like you to keep the poem," he finally said.
    "Oh, I want to, Arthur. And I will always treasure it. Especially some day when you're a famous poet," I added.
    He shook his head sadly. "The only thing I will be," he said knowingly, "is a famous failure."
    "Oh, please don't say that, Arthur."
    He turned and looked down at his papers. "Thank you," he said, "for being so honest."
    I could see he didn't want to talk anymore so I thanked him again for the poem and left. I think it hurt me almost as much as it hurt him. I was never so glad to see Trisha and bask in her energy and laughter as I was when she returned from the movies that night and brought me the latest school gossip. I didn't tell her about Arthur's poem. I had already hidden it away in my dresser drawer with some of my other precious mementos, things I never wanted to lose, but things I found full of pain as well as love, like Momma Longchamp's picture, for they reminded me of what was lost and what would never be.
     
    As more time passed Agnes's anger at me diminished. We never discussed the incident of my coming home at three in the morning anymore. I knew I had a good ally in Mrs. Liddy who sang my praises, especially when it was my turn to help with the kitchen work. I often spent time with her in the kitchen watching her work. She told me her life story, how she was made into an orphan at age eight when both her parents died from Spanish flu. Her family was separated because no one wanted to take on more than one child at a time, and there were two sisters and a brother