The Unsent Letter

An eighth specimen from the letter shop. No buyer, no sender.

I didn't cry at the funeral. I say that first because the rest depends on you not deciding I'm a monster.

There was a version of me that only existed in the doorway of your hospital room. Keys in hand. Already leaving. And when the call finally came, the floor dropped, and under the floor something straightened up and breathed. Relief. I've never said that word in daylight.

You held the house together with your fear of what would happen if you let go. I know you'd have called that love. From the inside it was a hand on my head, always. I stayed because leaving would have cost more than staying, and I've spent years deciding whether that was loyalty or cowardice.

Both, probably.

Here's what I'd carve if stones told the truth: I loved you. You were impossible. I am lighter where you used to weigh, and I'm not sorry, and I'm sorry for not being sorry.

I still set my keys by the door like I'm waiting to be called.

All Souls is this weekend, when the dead get their names said out loud. If there's a name you can't say out loud, that's the one I write. One sentence is the whole beginning. Send it to me here.