Every night I walk the narrow path to The Door, Your Door. (I tell no one. I make sure they're not watching). They tried to keep me from you. Did you know they hid the letters? They hid them, but I found them in the attic underneath a pile of your clothes. They tried to donate those too, but I stopped them. I had a fit and I made them stop. Everyday my nightgown is damp with tears, but at night I have comfort. I know you're with me then.
Already there is talk of moving on. It's been a whole year, they say. I need to Let Go, Move On, but I'm making plans of moving in. They tire of me day after day; not dressing, hardly eating, forever staring out the window waiting for you to come home. I am such an unbearable weight to them. All I can think about is you.
I can hear your voice like a carousel, around and around again. Like children in the park. Ice cream giggles and dandelion puffs. Those ice tea chats on the front porch with your folks, the days when you breathed a smile.
It's like a record played just for me, everyday. I see your shadow move as you always had. I see you tie on your neck tie in front of the long stand up mirror in the corner, next to your trunk of coats. You own so many coats. I know I use to complain, but I'm grateful now. When I try to wear them, the sleeves fall over my hands like I'm a child playing dress up. I can picture you laughing at me. That warm good-hearted laugh. I ache for it. If I could only hear it just a little louder...
I can hear you walk down the stairs at five am sharp for work. I can hear you shut the door in a hurry on the days you're running late. I can hear you make coffee on the days that you're not. I hear you tune the radio, cutting static until you found a song in the sunny afternoons where our shadows would dance in the light of the window. I can hear you sing A-Capella along with the scratching sounds of the old records father left you when he passed, all the while shaving in the bathroom, just like it has always been. I can see the steam on the mirrors. With the edge of my fingertips I trace the words as if they were on your body. I write "I'll always love you." Did you see it, my love?
Sometimes at night my arm reaches out and my nails run across the skin of your back, but when I lift my head up to look, I find it's just your pillow.
I know it was real and I know you're there. You were. I remember you. How could you not be? How could you be gone like that so fast? As if it were only a dream. (In my heart, I know you're there).
When I get away from them, my family, it's such a relief. I know they mean well, but they don't know. They don't know us like I do. When I can get out, nature is so peaceful, pure, and quiet. It yields to me as I walk to you. As my bare feet pad across the moist grass from early morning dew. If I can just get inside that cold and dark place, I could lay with you, my dearest, and kiss your cold lips. They would be bliss to me my darling, setting me free of these scolding bonds that chain me to living.
Don't they know? "Real love is forever." Please take me with you. I feel the pain of parting like an ocean has risen up within me and torn me apart like a tsunami, scattering pieces of debris, swept away, and with no way to retrieve myself. It's irreparable, and I don't want them to repair it. Like an animal, I howl in pain and stalk the night through the trees to your grave, covered in earth and sweat, looking for you.
I wish for death to bring me to you. My most terrible desire, because all that I desire, all that I want, is you. I'm writing you this letter because I want you to know, I'm coming home. I know you can hear me. I'll be there soon...