Letterbox

Every Friday afternoon I sit down at my kitchen table and write you a letter. In the beginning they were all filled with how much I missed you, or how miserable I was, or how unfair everything was. In the beginning I would reread all my letters. Let my angry, sad, hurt words wash over me again. Now I just reread them after I'm done. Check for mistakes. Over time they've changed to me writing to you about my life. I tell you the little things that happened during the week, about fragments of other people's conversations I've overheard. They used to be stacked on one of the top shelves in the kitchen, always threatening to fall down onto the floor. Now I keep them in a box under the bed. It says “letters” on the lid. I pray to god no one ever opens that and reads them. It's Monday now and my boss is telling me I'm moving offices. They need me over at the main office for an uncertain amount of time and could I please pack up and leave on Wednesday? They'll pay for a flat in a company owned building, no need for me to rent out my one bedroom apartment. No need for me to stay too long today, just get my stuff and email things and call this one guy who'll set me up with train tickets. I'm in my kitchen. Calling mum to tell her I'm moving. For a bit. Yes, it's quite sudden. Yes, it's a good career move. No, really I don't mind, nothing to keep me, and so on. I need her to water the plant and maybe hoover once in awhile. And, I need to borrow the big suitcase. I'm sorting through what to bring with me. Picking outfits and carefully packing my makeup. I have a big black garbage bag for things that I ought to have thrown away ages ago. It's slowly filling with useless things. My foot bumps into the box of letters under the bed. Slowly I'm going back in time. Week by week I descend back into blackness. So many truths. So many truths about me and absolutely nothing about you. It's like you never existed. Did you ever? My floor is covered in letters. My face is wet from crying. By the time mum gets here there's no sign of the letters or my crying. The garbage bag is full, mum offers to chuck it on her way back home. I nod. There's nothing for me in that bag anyway.

And the letters that you never meant to send, got lost and thrown away.