The Letter

The cupboards were almost bare. Some rice and canned beans on the bottom shelf. A box of various teas on top. Dust was everywhere. It covered shelves, cabinets, books, pots, pans, highball glasses, and the desk that he sat at to write this letter which never got mailed.

I found it in the knife drawer amongst sharp blades and can openers. A book of matches were in there as well. Said, Meet Me At Henry’s, on the cover. Inside was a telephone number. It was written in red ink with a drawing of lips above. I lit a candle with one of the matches just to see if it would still strike. A blue and yellow flame touched the candle’s wick. The room was illuminated.

Dear Jessica, the letter started. I write to you from a house that’s in complete disarray. Lazy and depressed. No cleaning has been done in months. Everything reeks of smoke and the plants have long since died. They were too much for me to take care of, he wrote. I miss having you here. It was always a joy to see you in the morning. Coffee downstairs in the breakfast nook was always a great way to start the day. But, nothing lasts forever. I don’t know why I did the things I did, or, say the words I said. It all seems so confusing now. That being said, I’m sorry for my actions that caused the end of our marriage, he wrote in cursive. I’ll send you this letter when I’m ready to face my actions. Until that time, take care. I am truly ashamed. Love, Paul.

This letter had pictures of the two dancing, posing with arms around each other, laughing. It made me think that at one time they were happy. Or, in love. What sins did he commit against the sacred vows? Hard to say.But, it must have cut deep.

He hid everything about them in that drawer. I placed the letter and photos in a shoe box. I buried it in the closet with my own history. Sometimes I read the letter and look at the pictures of the happy couple. We often regret the things we do.

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