I Hope This Letter Finds You Well

This is my entry for Heather Hubler's "Write Me a Letter" challenge. Enjoy!

Dearest Heather,

I hope this letter finds you well.

You were well when I saw you last. You were sitting on a bench in the middle of a busy park in the city. You were reading on your second-hand Kindle. I couldn't see what it was you read. You lifted your foot out of your right shoe to discreetly scratch an itch on your left calf. You were wearing those tacky socks, the ones with the cat in bedazzled sunglasses. I said I liked them, when you asked, but since we're here you may as well know: I don't care for them at all.

You took a phone call from your mother while you sat there. The call lasted for eleven minutes and thirty-five seconds. It sounded like she told you someone had died, but it wasn't someone close enough to affect you. In that moment, I had dared to hope it was one of your aunts. Not Carol. Carol's a kind lady. But you've got a few too many aunts with a few too many noses in a few too many peoples' businesses. After a moment's consideration, I hoped it was Phyllis. I cross-referenced obituaries with the service details you repeated to sound as if you cared. It was a relative so distant, even I didn't know them.

I sent you a text message, "Where r u rite now?" I wanted to see if you'd lie in front of my face. You didn't even turn your head. You just stood and power-walked to the street to catch a cab. You turned off your phone. I guess softening my tone with "text speak" didn't do shit. That was (questionable) advice from two therapists ago, but I thought I'd give it a shot. At least here on the paper I can take my time, use more words, vary the pressure behind my pen and punctuate deliberately. A handwritten letter is more your speed. There's no need to crowd letters or truncate thoughts. Here there are real, tangible lines. Will you read between them? Is there anything there?

It's been three weeks since I saw you last, and I miss you terribly. I mindlessly shuffle past the places we used to go. Café. Bookstore. Theater. The other café. You're not there. Do you miss those outings too? Do you venture out alone? I can't imagine you settling for a stale pot of Maxwell House every time you feel yourself running out of steam. Even with your pumpkin-spice non-dairy creamer, it tastes vile. You know it. I know it. So, where do you get your lattes now?

You left your apartment in the dead of night, with the help of five friends with three cars. It's not your apartment anymore. You left behind the things you couldn't or wouldn't pile into back-seats and trunks: some chairs, a desk that requires too much effort to disassemble, and the end table I built for you when the apartment was new and bare. You appreciated the use of reclaimed wood. I thought you liked it. You looked at it often. Is this your way of giving it back? That's so rude. You didn't used to be rude.

You didn't leave a forwarding address, but that's okay. I have a few leads and a couple very good guesses. One of these innocuous envelopes with their American-flag-printed "Forever" stamps will show up, mixed in with the bills and coupons. They're addressed with simple white labels with black print, so elegantly generic, spelling your name: H E A T H E R. You will open it, and you will read it, and I will know.

I hope this letter finds you.

Love, ME.