It had been a few years.
There had always been mixed messages,
But, helpfully, she'd sorted them in advance,
Placed along a spectrum, from extreme to extreme.
But what now? What did she think?
And what of then? What does she see?
Can I send her a Freedom of Information request?
Would the modest fee cover the emotional cost?
I brace myself as the brown envelope sits on the table.
I twitch as the phone rings.
I stare at the noise.
It withholds secrets I cannot know,
Though were I to comply, it may tell me everything.
But my table is bare. My phone dormant.
Her information is free, and that freedom includes the denial of my request.
With my intrigue rests a contentment.
The past, long gone, remains with me forever.