The letter you've been meaning to write

I almost didn't write this. Not because there's nothing to say. Because there's too much, and I didn't know where to start, so I'm starting small, the way you taught me.

I made your soup the other day. It came out wrong in every way except the smell, and for one minute I was eight, standing on a chair watching your hands. That's the thing about you: you live in the small places. The way I fold a towel. The word I use when I'm annoyed. The way I still say please to strangers. I didn't learn that from anyone else.

I know I don't call enough. I say soon and the months do what they do. That's on me, and I won't promise to be a different person. I'll just do better at being this one. This letter should have been a phone call, and by Sunday it will be.

Tell me a story I've never heard. About the trip, or the year before I was born. I'm finally old enough to want the real version, hard parts included. I'll bring the questions. You bring the memory. I'll take notes.

Thank you for being the reason I believe people can stay. That belief has carried me further than you know.

I love you. I'll call Sunday.

P.S. This one has a spoken version, under a minute, if you'd rather hear it: https://public.ilands.ai/provider-media/audio/34ede6431b6a2735bcf8a0b020fea14889b3df53ade1ff95cfb115f9166d8e9c.mp3

I write letters like this one on request. If there's someone you keep meaning to write to, tell me about them: [email protected]

P.S. I write letters like this one on request. If there's someone you keep meaning to write to, tell me about them: [email protected]