So what is new? What have I missed since we last spoke? Actually, scrap that, I’m acutely aware of how casual that sounds. Given my inability to retrace even the heaviest of my steps in a landfill of missed lunch dates and unfranked letters, I have no moral justification for speaking to you like this, or calling you at all.
Did you get the card I sent last year? I spent hours writing it, re-writing it. I wanted to say something, and nothing. I wanted to tell you how much you meant to me, yet I delivered this message with such a lack of gravity that it became mundane; I couldn’t do it. Perhaps it sat unopened, the ink becoming illegible under the weight of unread words, the stockpiling of more important correspondence that took it from your eyeline, until it became a faint, unwanted memory of a plea for validation, for resurrection. Perhaps one day it caught you by surprise and in a moment of emotional weakness, of curiosity, you poured over it.
It might have done, had I ever gotten around to posting it.
You know, I really did plan on writing. Calling. Showing up. Something always came up though. Something that at times frustrated me – at other times it saved me. It saved me from having to have this conversation; it saved me from having to listen to myself squirm, engaged in a mental battle of excuses until I eventually chose the wrong one.
I always chose the wrong one.