After the hospital and the medication, after the flashbacks stopped and the darkness didn’t visit so often, after the ghosts had finally disappeared, and the stitches came out, I decided I needed to deliver the letters. The letters I had been writing for years.
I packaged them carefully into a brown envelope, stamped them with a red wax seal, and looped the parcel in twine. Clutching the envelope, I stepped out into the summer heat, deciding to take the long route through the park.
Walking the gravel path through the grass, people threw Frisbees back and forth, kicked hacky sacks, and tossed footballs around me. A group had gathered to watch as a man balanced on a slackline fastened between two crooked trees. Others laid nearby in hammocks, lifting their heads only slightly to take small sips from their bottles of beer, liquid spilling lazily on the ground.
My heart fluttered as my eyes landed on Jack sitting in the grass, reading beneath a tree. His hair was shorter, his unmoving curls coiled in place, and he was wearing tortoiseshell glasses. I chewed the inside of my cheeks, examining his white shirt. It was clean, glaringly so, without any paint or charcoal stains. I felt a tug inside me, like my skin was being tightened around my bones.
Jack glanced up from his novel but didn’t see me, and as he lowered his gaze, turning the page, his gold wedding ring caught the reflection of the sun. It didn’t hurt so bad.
“Heads up,” someone called from a distance. I ducked, avoiding a soccer ball to the head. I moved after it, bent and took the ball in my arms, holding it for a second before tossing it back to its owner. The ball landed, and with it, two crows that had been disturbed by the commotion flew off.
I stared as they silently glided into the air, flying in circles, one alongside the other, dancing a sky-bound waltz.
Two for joy.
Continuing on through the park and down the road, I noted the colours of each house that I passed, giving them names—mosaic green, butterscotch yellow, lilac lady purple, gingerbread brown, newborn pink—until I arrived at a small grey bungalow. Scanning the horizon, I watched as the sun’s light shimmered and shook through the trees and realized, as I passed the free-standing mailbox labelled J. Orianna, I was no longer counting.
I made my way down the narrow pathway. Reaching the house, I stopped to peer inside the curtainless window. The kitchen table was set with Blue Willow china dishes, as though the inhabitants were about to sit and have dinner, but there was no one in the kitchen. There was no smell of food cooking, or sign that the oven was turned on. It resembled one of the museums I had loved to visit as a child—the spaces that weren’t meant for living, but merely a display of the past. The ones that felt nothing like home.
I approached the door, touching the brass knocker and rapping it against the wood.
I waited.
The door opened, just wide enough for my mother’s slight frame to slip through. Her feet were bare, and I glanced at her naked toenails on the threshold, buckling against the silver as she inched forward.
Lifting my gaze, I met her eyes, the same eyes she had given me, and handed her the letters, without saying a word.