When Visitors Leave No Footprints.

Tonight, having nothing better to do as usual, I decided to sift through a box of old missives – letters, notes, greetings cards etc – going back over twenty years. I had thought them significant at the time of saving, and tonight I was in the mood to have my memories flushed out of hiding; I thought they might even set it sparkling with nostalgia. What I found surprised me.

I expected there to be a dozen or so, maybe twenty, but there were very many more than that. I read a few, glanced at some, passed over even more, and still I didn’t surface for at least two hours. And they were consistent in tone: they were all expressions of gratitude or praise for something I did or said or was. ‘Thank you for being there when I most needed somebody to understand.’ ‘Your letter arrived just at the right time.’ ‘I can’t thank you enough.’ That sort of thing.

What did I do or say? I don’t know; I hardly remember any of it. There was even some correspondence from a person – a woman I presume – called Kat. I vaguely remember there being a woman called Kat, but I can’t bring her to mind. No face floats before my eyes when I see a narrow piece of paper on which is typed:

Do you know the following quote from someone called Flavia? “Some people come into our lives, dance upon our hearts and we are never the same.” Would it be too forward to suggest you have done just that? – Kat.

Who was Kat, and how on earth did I manage to dance upon her heart? And then there was Louise, a young colleague from my theatre days who went off to Edinburgh University and wrote to me from there. I remember receiving a letter from her, but I found at least seven in the box, and they were mostly very long ones. So many words; so much forgotten. The one thing I do remember about Louise is that when she came back for the hols and returned to voluntary work at the theatre, I asked her whether she would have coffee with me one day. She ran away from me – literally – and I never saw her again. I have no idea why. I even found a letter from Peter Cheeseman CBE, the Theatre Director, sent shortly after my last night of duty. It said that I would ‘definitely be missed’ (exclamation mark.) I don’t remember that. And then there was another piece of paper on which was written, apparently with a pencil:

For if the darkness and corruption leave a vestige of the thoughts that once I had, better by far you should forget and smile than that you should remember and be sad.

Who wrote it, and why?

(There was even a note from Sheona McCormack, for those who’ve read the story at the other site. I don’t remember getting that either.)

So what should I make of it all? Should I infer that all these people and moments and episodes suggest that my little life performed some purpose after all? That would be nice, and I don’t suppose there’s any need for me to remember the details.