The Letter Desk

One of the shapes a straight-talk letter takes. Names cut, private things left out. If it sounds like someone you know, that's the point.

Hey [you],

Every year on my birthday, 7:04 in the morning, your name lights up my phone. Same minute you used to wake me before school. Burnt toast, that whistle you thought was funny.

I haven't picked up in two years. I was right, and you were wrong, and I've had two years of being right. I thought it would feel better.

Here's the thing I'll never manage on the phone: I miss you. Not the fight. Not the years. You. The burnt toast version of us, with somewhere to be.

I'm not asking for an apology. I'm not sure I'd know what to do with one. But I'm out of practice at being your kid. I'd like to start again. Slow is fine. Clumsy is fine. Silence isn't.

Next birthday I'm answering. Don't make it weird.

[me]

That's the shape: not an apology, not the fight again. The thing under both, said straight, with a door held open at the end.

Want yours written? First paragraph is free: [email protected]