Months had passed, he was right there, working, carrying something that was too heavy and too much to bare. The house was full of flowers and there was a sadness that seemed to ignore how wonderful the light was that filled each room. There were words spoken then that were also very sad and were met with tears. I remember those times and I remember my silence.
It wasn't until I left I was able to find the words. But most importantly, it was the distance that I needed to separate myself from a response. When the words came they were all familiar and had been with me for months. It wasn't until I was away that they were able to become words, to take on form, and be given a structure that formed meaning through reflection. I had lost sleep for many nights. I had dreams of writing that letter. And finally one night, with the silence that surrounded my parents' small house on a small island I left my bed, went into the study, and closed myself off. I wrote by hand and carefully wrote, knowing that he had consideration for good penmanship, and so I tried very very hard. One page turned into two and where I began was where I ended. Careful folds were made, a perfect fit in an envelop, and finally address and stamp.
With the moon just above and in the company of many stars I walked with a faint shadow to the mailbox. The sound of the screech of the mailbox door being opened then closed travelled down that silent street. It was done I told myself. But that red flag on the mailbox was still up as I went to sleep and was still up by the time I woke up. It would be hours in the day until finally I heard that mailbox door be opened then closed. And even then that letter had to travel thousands of miles as I hoped it arrived well before I returned. It was important then that that letter arrive without my presence there, that my face and my access was removed. That the words written can just be read and need no response to their author. They were words that needed to be said, simply just said. No immediate response, no thank you, no exchange, but an understanding that words like that exists.
For no expectations, no need for a response, and to be listened to because there is something I needed to say. These words, though I have to say them, aren't for me, but are for you. They are my observations and my feelings that come as a response to you. I need no more than what I have. Anything else is the unexpected but is always welcomed like a surprise.
Let the words exists. Let them find a place somewhere out there. Let them be free of their author. Free from any one person. Let them be shared. Let them be heard. This is what I have learned. To tell stories, to speak from a position that is from my personal but is accessible, exchangeable with you and your own experience. Let us share feelings, the places we've been, and recall of the people we have met. And so and so.
