June 14th, 1987 Dear Thomas, I am writing this letter knowing I will not send it. This is my third attempt at a first sentence, which you would find amusing if you knew, which you do not, which is the point. I am told by people who write about the heart that unsent letters are useful — that they let you say things the way you would say them if the saying had no consequences. I find I am not sure this is true. Every word I write to you has the weight of consequence, sent or not.
March 2nd, 1994 Dear Thomas, I saw you at the Hartley wedding. You were with someone — I could not see her face clearly and I did not try harder to see it. You looked well. You always look well; this is one of the things about you that I have, over the years, considered forgiving you for. My mother sat next to me and held my hand during the reception, which she has never done before, which means she saw you too and understood something she has never once mentioned. We drove home in comfortable silence. I have been lucky in the women who have loved me.
November 29th, 2019 Dear Thomas, I found all of these today, in the cedar box in the attic. Forty-one letters over thirty-two years. I read them in order and then I sat with my coffee and I thought about you, the real you, not the one I've been writing to all this time. You are sixty-three years old now, somewhere. You are someone's husband or someone's loss. You have a face that has thirty-two more years on it than the one I carry. I hope it is a kind face. I think I am finally ready to stop writing to find out.
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