Dear Sammy

March 14th, 2011

Dear Sammy,

Lee suggested I write this letter to you, he said it would help me think. I think it’s a load of horse shit. I personally don’t think it’ll help me with anything. It can’t hurt though, can it? It’s not like you’ll ever write back to me. 

Yours, 

S

April 4th, 2011

Dear Sammy,

Here I am again. I at least found a nicer spot to write this time. I'm sitting on a bench, overlooking the pond. I suspect you might know the one I mean. It’s overcast today, which makes the sun’s reflection in the water look like the moon. 

Lee says that the reason I don’t want to write to you is because I am scared that I might actually learn who I really am. It’s nonsense. The reason I don’t like writing to you is the same reason I don’t like writing anything. It’s all a waste of time. 

Yours,

S

April 17th, 2011

Dear Sammy,

I’m back at my bench. I saw a funny looking bird, with an intricate pattern on its face that made it look as though it were wearing an ornate mask. I read on a placard by the water’s edge that it’s called a grebe. I don’t know why I’m bothering to tell you that though, you know at least as much as I do about these things. 

Lee says that it’s okay that I feel the way I do, that most people do. He says I’m not different, nor am I special in that way. Is that helpful? 

Yours,

S

May 1st, 2011

Dear Sammy,

There’s a plastic bottle floating in the spring. It’s trying to make its way downstream but it’s  gotten caught in the riverbank. It’s trapped between the reeds and the bracken. It’s stuck on the fringes of somewhere it’s not supposed to be, and it just has to watch as the water flows past, carrying moorhens and driftwood alike. 

I can’t help but feel like the bottle.

Yours,

S  

May 2nd, 2011

Dear Sammy,

Well would you look at that, two days in a row. I couldn’t help it, it's finally warm outside. The colour of the water looks different in the sunlight, like a deep sage, as opposed to its usual sludgy brown. 

Truth is, although I still hate writing these letters to you, I’ve grown quite fond of my little bench. Lee thinks that the fresh air will help. I’ve started coming here more, even when I don’t write to you. I like to rub my hands in the moss that’s climbing up the tree behind the bench. It’s soul-soothing. 

Perhaps I’ll do some research and find out what the tree is called. If I do, I’ll let you know. 

Yours,

S

May 14th, 2011

Dear Sammy, 

The weather didn’t last. It’s been raining non-stop ever since our little sunny-spell. It’s finally slowed enough that I can get out here and write another letter to you. There’s that smell in the air, you know the one. It’s the smell of British springtime. It’s your favourite, or at least, it used to be. 

It’s still raining now, though luckily the leaves overhead are enough to shelter me for the most part. I’m sorry if there are spots of wet ink on the paper. It’s the price of writing en plein air. 

Lee says that you probably feel the way I do now. Do you feel stuck? Lost? He said that you feel it less often than I do. I hope for both our sakes that’s true. 

Oh, and by the way, that tree is a beech. 

Yours,

S

July 17th, 2011

Dear Sammy,

I do genuinely feel guilty that I haven’t written to you in such a long time. I was starting to enjoy the process. It’s been a difficult time for me. It was my birthday at the end of May. I trust you remember that. 

I didn’t do anything special. I just came here, to my bench. My own little slice of the woods. No one came with me. The only company I had were the blackbirds and the chaffinches, and even they didn’t reveal themselves to me. They just sang their merry little songs, completely unperturbed by the fact that I was crying. 

I have cried a lot since that day, including once with Lee. He said it was good that I felt comfortable enough to show my emotions in front of him. I just thought it was good that I could feel anything at all. 

Yours, 

S

July 21st, 2011

Dear Sammy, 

I do find myself wondering if they even still call you Sammy? Or do you go by Sam now? Or, God forbid, Samuel? If I were to ever hear anything from you, please let it be that you don’t call yourself Samuel. 

Nothing much to report. I haven’t seen Lee since my last letter. The springs are as peaceful as they ever were. I’ve found the mallards to be bolder than they used to be. Before, they’d take off into the water before I even caught sight of my bench. Now, they just turn their bottle-green heads, watching me carefully as I step by. The grebes and the moorhens aren’t quite as brave. I take care not to disturb them too much. 

I hope you still do too. 

Yours,

S 

August 1st, 2011

Dear Sammy, 

I’m horrified, shocked and dismayed. I haven’t once written to you about the flora! How it’s changed since I’ve been writing to you. The trees have finally woken from their winter slumber. The oaks, maples and ashes all have a fresh, green trim to them. And the flowers! They’re immaculate. I never once noticed a flower in my life, but these woods are painted with bluebells and the shocking pink foxgloves. I can’t help but notice them now. 

I’m writing this letter in the evening as opposed to my normal morning routine. The days are getting longer and warmer. Shadows are dancing on the surface of the water. 

Lee says it's time for me to start meeting new people. He can’t be the only person in my life, not at least if I want to be happy, he says. 

I don’t know if I’m ready for that. I suppose only time will tell. For now, I’ll just enjoy the breeze. 

Yours, 

S

August 11th, 2011

Dear Sammy, or Sam, or whatever your name is now,

I’m trying to be as delicate as I can while writing today, and I’m not in my usual spot either. A little ways upstream from the bench, there is an otter! It’s currently perched on the riverbank about thirty or so feet away from me. I am terrified that if I make any sudden movement I’ll scare it away. 

I don’t want it to go. For the first time in a while, I feel content. There’s no one else beside me here, but that’s okay. I have me and the otter, and that’s enough. 

I suppose I have you, too, in some strange little way, but thinking about that is a bit too cerebral for me. It gives me a headache. So I’m going to put my pen away and watch the otter until it heads off down the river. 

Yours, 

S

August 29th, 2011

Dear Sammy, 

A development has occurred. I made a friend, or at least, I might have. Her name is Becca. Paul took her on at the greengrocers because Kate is retiring, and I can't work every shift.

I want to describe her to you. Her hair is a similar colour to the bench, and it’s fuzzy like the moss. She’s quite short compared to me, like a willow next to a great oak. And her eyes. Do you remember when I wrote to you, way back in the beginning, on a cloudy day in March? At least I think it was March. It’s coming back to me now. Her eyes are like the reflection of the sun in the pond in overcast weather. They remind me of the moon. 

You’re the first person I’m telling, believe it or not. I haven’t even told Lee yet. I don’t know when it happened, but I’ve realised now that I’ve grown quite fond of writing to you.  

We bonded over a passion for the outdoors. She grew up in Okehampton, and she used to walk through Dartmoor regularly. I’m not sure what she’s doing in Yeovil now. Anyway, she gave me her phone number, and I texted her, asking if she’d like to come walking with me to the springs. I don’t think I’ll take her to the bench though, much too soon for that. 

I’m proud of myself for reaching out. For trying to make something happen. I hope you are too. 

I’m still waiting for her to reply. I’ll let you know how it goes. 

Yours, 

S

August 29th, 2011 

I’m such an idiot. I cannot believe how stupid I was, thinking that someone like Becca would want to spend any time with me. She’s probably sick of having to work with me, let alone being in my presence unpaid. 

‘I’m busy that day’. Of course she’s busy. What a fool I am. Shit, now the ink is smearing on the page. I can even hear the crows laughing at me.

Yours,

A waste of space 

January 2nd, 2012

Dear Sammy, 

It’s been a while, hasn’t it? I owe you an explanation. 

I’ve still been coming to the bench, though not as regularly as I’d like. It got cold quickly this year, and you of all people should know that I hate the cold. The pond even froze over for a day or two. I’ve made the effort for today though, because I expect this will be the last time I write to you. 

I could’ve written to you from home, and I did try. It just didn’t feel right. Nor did it feel right when I came to the bench to write to you. At first I thought it was autumn’s fault. The green leaves on the beech tree turned to brown, the thrushes went to sleep earlier, and the cool breezes turned bitter. The atmosphere wasn’t right for writing, but I’d still come back here, almost every day. 

In my last letter, I called myself an idiot. It turns out I was right, but not for the right reasons. Becca truly was busy that day. I hadn’t expected to see her at the greengrocer’s again, but there she was, the very next day, bright-eyed and cheerful as ever. She suggested another day that I could take her to the springs, and so we went. 

The grebes and the moorhens were waiting for us. As were the mallards, with their suspicious eyes. There were plenty of cowslips and violets for colour. There was moss, ivy, and bracken. I remember the breeze that day was so gentle, and the water’s surface was so delicate.

I took a deep breath as I gazed at my reflection, and noticed the quiet. Becca was still. Even the blackbirds weren’t singing, it seemed. I didn’t recognise the man in the water ahead of me. He looked healthy, and there seemed to be a smile on his lips. It wasn’t Sammy anymore. This was Sam. At that moment I remembered the plastic bottle. Do you remember? The one stuck in the riverbank? It was long gone. 

I suppose this letter is my goodbye, at least for now. Truthfully, I don’t think I need this anymore. Becca has introduced me to some of her friends, and I get on well with them. My free time has gotten sparse, with work, and Becca, and trips to the pub and day trips to Bristol with new people. 

But I will always make time to come here, to my bench. My perfect, little bench. I expect you know it well by now, or at least remember it fondly. I will sit quietly, look at the water, and rub my hands on the moss of the beech tree. I think I’ll bring Becca here soon. Let me know how it goes one day. 

Yours, 

Sam 

March 18th, 2025

Dear Sam,

She loved it. We sat there for a long time, just watching the reeds drifting gently on the riverbank. No rain that day, but it was cold. I remember that, because it was the day she asked if we could huddle, for warmth of course. 

We kissed shortly after that. We were still sitting on the bench, beneath the beech tree. Even the mallards with their beady little eyes gave us our privacy. It was the perfect moment. 

I timed this letter well, didn’t I? Almost fourteen years to the day. It’s funny, reading the letters back now, I’d almost forgotten how much I hated writing them in the beginning. 

Lee died a few years ago now, so I had to find a new therapist. I’ll never forget him, though. It was his idea to start writing the letters. He said that writing letters to your future self can help you manifest the person you want to become. 

I think the truth was that he was right. We were scared of discovering who we really were, and how far away we were from the man we wanted to be. But, you did it. You became the man you wanted to be. 

We’re getting married in the summer, Becca and I. We still come walking here together with our labrador Millie, almost every day. I decided to come alone today. I wanted to write to you, to tell you how eternally grateful I am to you. And to tell you that I am proud of you. 

I’m still Sam, though Becca calls me Samuel at times if she’s annoyed with me. She knows I hate it, just like you did. 

It rained last night, and with it came the smell of British spring. I think it’s still my favourite, though it might have been eclipsed by Becca’s coconut shampoo. I’m not sure. 

One thing I can say for certain is that I will never stop coming back to this bench. It’s become part of my story, of our story. As have the grebes, moorhens and mallards. The oaks and the maple, the foxgloves and the bluebells. And the pond. 

It’s a cloudy day, and the sun’s reflection reminds me of Becca’s eyes. 

Yours, forever,

Sam