He read the note, folded it and edged it into the gutter. He had folded it carefully, each edge having its own place. He didn’t want to leave it there in the gutter, felt like he did when he tucked his 10-week old daughter in that night, carefully folding the soft blue under her chin, checking that the crib bar was up, the monitor on.
Every word of the note was imprinted on each eyelid, like a reading chart. He could recite it from memory. If only the words would form on his lips, if only they didn’t get larger in his throat so that they constricted him. If only then, he would read it aloud, and believe it. He could let her go then, but the words held him back.
He couldn’t accept the invite the letter offered. It was brilliant with light and all he longed for these past thirteen years. The letter was a gift. She said she loved him, but was letting him go.
He wanted to call her one last time. Wanted to hear her voice, whisper-thin like the curtains in the sunroom in fall. He wouldn’t say a word; just hearing her voice would be enough. But that was a lie. One word would lead to another, and another, until the words got jumbled in their mouths, syllables becoming tongues. And it would stack up like a deck of counted cards.
Instead, he placed the note gently into the gutter. The rain pulled it away like a lullaby. Slowly it got smaller, and smaller, until the note was nothing but a glint of the setting sun.
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