The tip of his ballpoint pen left a metallic ring across his tongue. He started every letter this way, with a little dip, with the taste of ink. A ritual as simple as it was rigid. A clean desk. A fresh sheet of paper. A legal pad listing the names of each individual set to receive a letter, with relevant topics and points to be included bulleted below. And, set with care in the corner of his desk, a framed photo of Felicity.
Gratitude. A word Robin's daughters, and granddaughters had been throwing around over the last few years. It felt as appropriate as thanks. He liked the weight of it. Its texture.
Thanks. Robin and his Felicity had given theirs weekly, their whole family had, for a time. They'd blessed their food with it before meals, he'd sandwiched his wishes and worries with it before sending his prayers up in the dead of sleepless, worrisome nights, he had whispered it, wholeheartedly, after near misses and great saves. That was before Robin had lost them. Both his Felicity, and his faith.
It had taken aeons before Robin found himself thankful for anything. His wife stolen. Their remainder of their life taken, scattered to the wind. Each day too long. Each night longer. Trapped in perpetual mourning. Everything had gone with her. His will, his joy. His purpose, his posture.
Grieve a thieving, endless ocean. Years were taken from Robin upon it, spent adrift, floating through seasons, trapped amongst the lulling waves, and the mesmerizing raise and fall of the Sun and stars over the horizon. In that time he spoke nothing of his internal torment. His mouth clamped shut, expression rigid, and unreadable. Sweet thoughts rotted, trapped alongside sombre bleek truths. The words as captive as his wounded heart. Robin’s mood had become as weathered as his skin, as grey as his hair. Incalculable months of muffled bitterness and hurt had ripened him, though his family knew little of it. Save for what they could extrapolate from behind his broken eyes, and the whispered concerns raised by their community regarding his absence from temple.
That was until his youngest granddaughter broke through. It was as innocuous as an extended hand to help him down the stairs and escort Robin to his car after a visit. The offer had been as unprovoked as it was unnecessary. He'd been inclined to bat it away with a gruff word, to shoo the unsolicited aid along with the weight of ageing in tandem.
Until he saw her eyes.
Those familiar family blues. Her irises splintered with greens, the same as his Felicity’s. Robin's pause opened enough space for the six year old to grab his arm without protest. He shuffled with her in surprise, and silence. At the car door he whispered his goodbyes and love to the girl as she skipped away. Too stunned to move, it was minutes before Robin realized he hadn't fired up the engine, and noticed her tiring arm's relentless, though now lethargic, wave goodbye from the lawn. He smiled as the car roared to life, pulled out of the drive, returned a little wave, drove down the street, and parked around the corner.
The engine idled, and Robin sat. He didn't sob. He didn't know what to do with himself. He felt as if he might be drowning. Memories flooded. Moments that had been repressed and unrealized in his grief. The water warm and sweet, he didn't struggle, he didn't mind. He succumbed to springs of copious kindnesses. On their surfaces he saw the reflections of the love that he'd been surrounded by but been failing to notice.
Within the basin of the waves of memory he caught quick breaths as he bobbed. Gasps of air before plunging again. He remembered his shoulders shaking, and his son trying to comfort him, reminding him how much Felicity had loved him. It was the morning after his first night alone and Robin’s son had come to check on him. In her absence the sudden ear splitting quiet of their house had broken Robin. Felicity had been taken so quick, so sudden, so cruelly. Robin felt lost, spurned by God. He didn’t have the strength, or the words to comfort their son in turn, and it devastated him further.
With her went his faith. Placed to rest on the same day. It hadn't been a guillotine, in truth it had been hanging by a thread for years. Saddled for decades by ritual, stubbornness, and the belief that the structure brought his family good, and protection. Though loathe to admit it, despite some of the evident foolish fictions, in times of crisis and doubt, faith had served as a rock. From which he had plummeted.
Parked in his car on the corner Robin realized he'd had more conversations of thanks and love with a God he no longer believed in than he had had with his family. Robin vowed to change that. At home he paced. He found himself in his study. Under Felicity's photograph Robin began a letter to his granddaughter. It had been intended as only a small thank you note but from the second Robin scratched her name across the top of the page his emotions erupted. Years of observations, memories and reserved compliments poured out, filling sheet after sheet. When his frenzy ended, and he'd dotted the i in his name, Robin reached for more paper.
The sound of the clock striking the hour broke his trance. It was three in the morning. Hypnotized by memory and pen strokes Robin had lost hours. To the side of the desk sat a stack of stuffed envelopes. As he blinked the daze away, his gaze returned to the letter he'd been working on. It was to Felicity.
For the first time since the funeral Robin lost himself to his sorrows. A damp dotted his eyes as they traced over each line, each consonant, each vowel. The sobs that wouldn't come in his car arrived in torrents, hunching him over his desk.
When he woke he felt lighter than he had in ages. Coffee in hand he returned to his office and reviewed the letters. The rest of the morning was spent in quiet. Over his brew Robin reflected on his life, his feelings, and the unspoken conversations he'd put to page. He felt connected to a humanity much bigger than himself. More than he had after any sermon, any mass, any prayer. Robin felt less alone.
It would be well over a month before he worked up the nerve to send the letters. In the weeks leading to his inevitable trip to the post office Robin penned dozens more. It began with friends and family, and spiralled from there. There were different letters drafted to the same people, some dated far off in the future, others dated as, and in regards, to years in the past. Some to the deceased, some to forgotten friendships. Robin wrote his support to institutions and organizations, petitioned to his local government officials for change, and at times to restaurants on behalf of the servers who took extra time and care with him in hopes that his accolades might garnish them a raise. Each letter contained praise, thanks, and unabashed truth. The more Robin emptied his heart the more his pen filled with words. It got to a point where he couldn't go to bed until he'd gotten something out.
While he avoided speaking of the letters, Robin couldn’t help noticed a tremendous change in his relationships as a consequence. Some would be answered by call, others text, some left unspoken but the shift felt. Conversations began to have more depth, connections grew in ways he could never have imagined. The candid words he sent invited those he cherished to speak back. The efforts were noticed, and encouraged. Sentiments were reciprocated. Robin could feel again. More than once he noticed one of his letters lovingly kept on bedside table, or tacked with a magnet on a refrigerator door. The notes perhaps relics by todays standards, yet treasured tokens of love none the less. It filled his broken heart.
Tonight, like most nights, he began with a letter to his lost Felicity. With his pen to page he could feel her warmth return to the room. He wrote of the joys and frustrations that had flavoured his day, of the things that had reminded him of her, and the moments he'd wished they shared. He let go of worry about repeating himself to her long ago, and often wrote of the same memories, relishing the subtle differences in the each telling. He wrote of his love. And when he finished, he drafted another letter.
Thanks for reading!
-Mr. Write
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