Work Text:
"Write about the love letters that were sent, from the viewpoint of the mailbox."
He never sends letters, but postcards.
They’re often creased, their glossy images scarred by hasty hands shoving them in pockets before they can be sent on their way.
The words are scrawled, not penned. The consonants have ragged curves and wobby tails, as if written in poor lighting. Often, there will be a slash of ink where the pen got away. Dashboards do not make for good writing tables.
Messages are short and succinct. Sometimes they name a location, other times, a generic pun; “Hunting Season: Gettin’ Lucky in Kentucky!” It doesn’t matter what they say because the meaning is always the same:
I love you.
I miss you.
I wish I was there.
There are periods when they arrive frequently, like time is running short. But then months will pass in silence, and I think we’ve been forgotten.
Once, one carried the phantom scent of whiskey. American, not Scotch. That one meant “I’m sorry.”
The postcards are from many people. Jimmy Page, Roger Moore, Harry Callahan, Bon Scott, John McClane. You have many admirers. Their handwriting is remarkably similar.
Until one day it’s not.
“It’s no one’s fault. He saved us, all of us. It shouldn’t have ended like this. I know he never wanted to see you hurt, but you deserve to know.”
For a long while, I am cold and empty. Mail comes, but it’s no longer the right kind of mail, hollow notices filled with pointless words that never say in any way
I love you.
I miss you.
I wish I was there.
Slips of colorful paper, crisp envelopes of white, lay abandoned at the bottom of my post. They fade in the sunlight. Flowers for a funeral.
Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t stop. He walks past me and to your door. It takes a few tries for you to answer, but his patience is rewarded when he can press the postcard into your hand.
“I thought I should deliver this one in person,” he says, and I’m sure he’s smiling.
I wish I could see your disbelief, your happy tears, the way you throw yourself into his arms and the way he buries his face in your hair.
I no longer get the picture postcards, the artful stamps and the touch of a thousand places, but I don’t mind.
Love isn’t meant for paper and postage.