Still addressed to you
an invented case for someone who's died, written the way I'd write a real one.
Dear R.,
It's been a year. I'm writing this because of your boots. I found them by the door this morning, the pair you wore to the dump and nowhere else, and I stood there, deciding something I couldn't name.
The news you're owed: the dog is fat and shameless. Your sister finally cleaned the garage. I took the job with the bad hours and the good coffee. You'd have questions, the specific annoying kind, and I'd have answered them all by now.
I laughed at something in the kitchen and turned to tell you. That's the part I want on the record. I understood the grief early. It's the turning that still gets me.
You were the person I wrote everything else to, so I don't know where to put this. This is where I put it. Not because I think you'll read it. Because you're still the only one who'd understand the first sentence.
The boots are staying by the door. Your size, my hallway. Some things don't get resolved. They get kept.
Still yours, even late,
T.
If you have someone you can't quite send it to, write to me: [email protected].