Old mail on a tabletop. Bills, bank statements, last notices, and letters laid on the wood, some opened, and many still sealed.

A warm beer sat beside a letter in a white envelope addressed to him with no other name on it. A zip code in the left corner was un-familiar to him. Maybe from Indio, California, or Taos, New Mexico. It felt like a Western letter. A stamp with Gene Autry stuck on the right.

He took a swig of Budweiser and opened the envelope dated 2010. Inside was lined white paper with black ink on it. A few holes from where the writer made punctuation marks.

Dear Sam. The letter starts. I hope this letter finds you. You moved so much across this country, I knew I was taking a chance.

So many things I want to know about you now. How’s your knees? Are you still slightly bo-legged? Has your hair turned gray? Is it still a little on the long side? What color is the truck? You were always putting house paint on it. I remember it was green and then red. Gray and black. Maybe you drive a station wagon now with a litter of grandkids in the back. Life is funny.

I’m out here in California.  Up in the mountains. I live by myself  and hear the coyotes howl at night. They always wake me up around five in the morning. I guess you could say they’re my alarm clock.

Truth is, I was thinking of you. I think of you a lot. How we drove and drove throughout this country, listening to classic rock and roll and gospel on Sundays. Remember that time in Memphis when we stood outside Al Green’s church? That was really something. You could hear them singing out in the streets. Like heaven was on earth.

He took another drink of beer and opened a sleeve of Saltine crackers there on the table under newspaper.

I just wanted to say hello, the letter continued. I don’t think I have much more time. I’ve been really sick as of late. Coughing a lot. Losing weight. I’m not as pretty as I used to be. I guess we all change.

You take care of yourself. I never stopped loving you.

God bless,

Debra.

He took another drink of room temperature Bud and put the letter back in the envelope. He placed it in an overflowing ashtray and lit it from a matchbook that said, Meet Me at Henry’s. 

The old man watched it burn.