the mailbox

I wanted so much for the letter to be good news. It had been a long time since she last wrote me. It made me nervous with each passing day when nothing came in my mailbox.

We’d made the agreement to write each other as often as we could. At first, the words flowed like wine. Filling up pages and pages, front and back. Expressions of love, of misery, of happiness, of longing. Everything was possible and everything was certain about our love.

Slowly, the pace of the letters slowed. First it was her. She didn’t respond quite as often or as enthusiastically as before. I kept my pace up. Figuring her busy schedule didn’t allow for as much writing. But, I’d always been able to communicate with words on paper instead of words in the air.

It’s why she got so mad when we talked on the phone. I was completely happy listening to her breathe. It made me feel, if I closed my eyes tight enough and no one was slinging garbage into the bin located right outside of my apartment, that she was laying there with me on my broken down futon.

“Why do we just sit here in silence?” she’d ask annoyed at my lack of conversation.

“I like it,” sometimes I’d say. Other times I might just say “I don’t know?” And other times I’d just let out a sigh. That was never a good reaction, but it was a natural one. It wasn’t important to me to hear words. It never dawned on me that she did need it. My words on paper were great, but hearing them from my own voice meant so much more to her than it did to me. A look when we were eating dinner could last me for a month, just knowing she loved me.

I guess I should have tried harder. Or something. I felt I was trying. But you always think that when you’re in the moment.

Yet I never blamed her for the words she’d sometimes say to me. They were cruel sometimes. Harsh at other times. She was just lonely. Wasn’t used to being by herself like I was. I’d seriously been alone for most of my life. The time living with her was about the closest I’d ever been to a person except for my mother. And she used to read books when she was at my soccer games, and she tried to shake my hand when she handed me my diploma at my high school graduation. Me? I went in for the hug. She, the handshake. Awkward.

It’s why she helped me. She helped me learn how to be a person in many ways. Get out of the shell of terror.

Which is why I always go to the mailbox hoping for the best, never what it usually is -- empty.

As the days turned to months and then a year, my words kept trying to flow. Hers, they eventually dried up.

I didn’t have a cell phone. I still had dial up internet. So, I bought calling cards. A lot of them. And we would argue on the phone. Paying to be humiliated, I’d say to myself while looking at a photo of her.

Eventually, the phone calls stopped too.

Then one day, a letter came. It was from her. We’d seen each other just a couple weeks before, so it was a surprise. It contained a short letter. It ended with I love you, Fini, the pet name I gave her.

It also had a CD. I listened to it. It was full of songs I’d never heard, along with a few I loved. I called her and told her I liked it. She asked if I’d listened to it. I found that odd. She said to listen to it.

I did. Over and over. I loved it.

Less than two weeks later, she had her future set. The future we’d been trying to get to for years.

And she stopped talking to me.

A couple weeks later, she called me. It was over, she said. I cried. Asked why. She didn’t answer that.

I still think about that day. Too much really. And I write. To no one and everyone. I’d like to go to the mailbox again some day, and find another letter. One that got lost in time somehow and forwarded around and around, until it finally found me. Old. Tired. But still alive.

In it would be what I used to love. And for a moment, I could go back there. Not to stay, but just to remember.