He mailed me a letter every week for a year. I didn't write back once. Then I showed up at his door.
Fifty two letters. Zero replies. One doorstep visit that said more than any envelope could.
The first letter arrived in January.
Handwritten. Blue ink.
I hope you're eating breakfast. You always skip it.
I read it three times.
Put it in the drawer.
The second came the following Monday.
I saw a cardinal today. You would have pointed at it.
I didn't reply.
Not because I didn't want to.
Because I didn't trust myself to keep it casual.
March. The rains are here. Your garden is probably mud.
June. Happy birthday. I didn't send a gift. This letter is it.
September. I still check the mailbox hoping you wrote back.
Every Monday. Fifty two weeks.
Some were long. Some were one line.
October's said: I know you read these.
November's said: your silence isn't rejection. I hear you anyway.
December's said: last letter. I've said everything. Your turn.
I held that last envelope for three days.
Then I packed a bag.
I drove four hours to his door on New Year's Eve. Fifty two letters. Zero replies. I was done being silent.