Letters by Conner

(Another sample. Written for nobody; about a hundred people in particular.)

We don't talk like this, you and me. Twenty-some years of weather reports and “mm-hm” is what we are, and mostly I've been fine with it. But there's a thing I've started saying out loud to other people, and it turns out I can't keep not saying it to you.

You gave me more than you know. Not the obvious stuff. The way you always hold the door with your foot for whoever's behind you. The way I never once felt broke, even when we were. The drive home that night with the heat on “low” because the gauge was lying, and you telling me it builds character. It built something.

I used to read your silence as a wall. I get it now: it was a room. You were in it the whole time, doing the math, keeping the lights on. The least I can do is knock.

So: I'm okay. Better than okay, most days. And the kid who told you “fine” every day for a decade? Still here, and wants to say thank you. Not the mumbling kind. The real kind.

You don't have to write back. Just know it's in the house now. It isn't going anywhere.

First line of yours is free, always: [email protected]