She opens it by running her finger nail down the side of the
envelope. The paper tears jagged and curls under her nail. The
outside of the envelope is plain, white, with no markings or
writing other than the address and a postage stamp. She brings the
envelope to her mouth and blows into the end that she has torn open.
Her breath fills the inside, expanding it with life.
The letter is three pages, folded over in the middle. It is
hand written. She can tell from the black ink that bled through,
leaving ghost mirrors of the words written on the front. She pulls
the pages from the envelope, laying it on the table. She grips
the letter in both hands, on either side of the pages, unfolds them
with her thumbs and forefingers.
The paper, yellowed, looks old. She recognizes his hand
writing immediately. She reads each line slowly, as though it might
disappear when she finished with it. The dark, black ink that he
used, that had bled through to the back side of each page, is from
the only type of pen he liked to use. Her thoughts turn to how funny the
little things are that make a person who they are, who you love.
Things like only using one type of pen. But, those are the things
that we cherish about them.
Some of the words are smeared. He was left handed, and if the
ink didn't dry fast enough it would smear as he wrote. In the left
margin running up and down the pages are faint letters, picked up a
line or two earlier, stamped on the page by the palm of his hand.
Once finished reading the letter, she reads it again. It
says what every love letter has ever wanted to say. All the things
that people try to accomplish in love letters but fail at, coming
across as forced or cliche, was inside this letter. The pages
start shaking in her hands. Her cheeks wet, and her bottom
lip trembles. The power and emotion of the letter is that
strong. Her knees give out and she falls into the chair at the
table.
It has been a little more than a month since she received the
news about his death. He had been over seas on business, and died
unexpectedly. She doesn't like to think about it. The nights are
the worst. She has been expecting this letter. She had given up
hope. The hope of one last word, one last time with him.
The letter makes the nights a little better. She reads it
every night before lying down. When she finishes reading it she
places the letter under her pillow. She falls asleep lying there
thinking about him. Sometimes it takes minutes,
other nights longer. But it's never like that first month. The
letter has a calming effect that counters the spell that night-time can
have. The one that brings to life all the horrors that stay below
during the day. I can't say what was in the letter, not exactly.
And, I won't insult it by trying to write something in. It was just
a love letter, the love letter. The one that we all have in our
hearts, but can never seem to put on page. But, he did, he found a
way.