Tuesdays Are For Closure

The letter arrived on a Tuesday. How fitting. Tuesday, the “middle child” day of the week. It’s not Monday’s fresh start or Wednesday’s hopeful halfway mark—it’s just… Tuesday. The handwriting on the envelope was unmistakable—slanted, jagged scribbles that appeared as though they’d been written while fighting off a swarm of bees. I had not seen this handwriting in years, but there it was, haunting my mailbox like a ghost unfamiliar with whiteout.

I debated opening it for all of three seconds before curiosity won. The fringe-filled letter was three pages in length, front and back, and was written on torn-out notebook paper—college-ruled, naturally. Of course. The ripped edges were sloppy, uneven, and straight out of an old high school notebook he’d had lying around for twenty years, no doubt. Because nothing says “I’m serious” like lines designed to contain teenage math problems. Charming.

The words spattered down the page like a greatest-hits compilation of bad apologies: best regrets, top ten excuses, and the chart-topper— “I wasn’t myself back then.” (Oh, really? And who exactly were you, then? A time-traveling magician? A fortune cookie ghostwriter?)

Then came the real gems—the classics. The second page was an absolute delight. There was the old nod to “uncontrollable circumstances”—a favorite for those who don’t want to admit they just didn’t “feel like it.” Some vague reference was made to "miscommunication" (roughly translated: "I ignored everything you said but sincerely hoped that you would forget.") And my personal favorite—a lament about how “time just slipped away.” Ah, yes. I remember—that elusive time—so squirmy. The poor guy must have been exhausted, constantly battling all those slippery little seconds.

Towards the end, it took a predictable turn back to forgiveness. Good old forgiveness. It’s always a go-to for people who want you to clean up their mess without charging them for damages. Then, as part of his final line, he requested that we "talk things over" and proposed a meeting for coffee. How bold.

I stared at the pages; another stack of empty promises, all dressed up and doused in cheap desperation. The letter sat on my kitchen counter next to an overripe banana (which felt strangely appropriate) while I contemplated its disposition.

I was not angry. Not really. Anger requires energy, and I had passed that point a long time ago. What I felt was more like mild irritation—the kind you feel when someone cuts in front of you while in line at the grocery store and then spends ten minutes fumbling for exact change while your ice cream starts to melt.

After much internal debate, I decided to write a little letter of my own:

Hello,

Thank you for your letter. First, I’d like to acknowledge your achievement in navigating the postal system. Congratulations! You even found a stamp! Good for you. This must have been a significant accomplishment, considering the fact that communication used to require at least three planets to align on the twelfth of never.

I must admit, your letter was quite the read—equal parts drama, fiction, and unintentional humor. Truly, a riveting write. A real page-flipper. Well done.

You mentioned “uncontrollable circumstances.” How tragic. Gosh, if only I had known about such awful, unexpected occurrences that kept you from showing up, replying, or even vaguely resembling someone dependable all those times. I had no idea. You poor, poor thing.

Then there’s the bit about “miscommunication.” Curious. I seem to recall spelling out my concerns quite clearly—repeatedly, in fact. Sometimes loudly. Occasionally, in song. Could it be that something was buzzing around in your ears? Some sort of nest? Fruit flies, perhaps? It would explain a lot.

And, of course, the note to “time just slipped away.” Tell me, was it cracks in the pavement that swallowed your hours? A time vortex, perhaps? Or was it merely the exhausting task of prioritizing literally anything else over keeping your word? Whatever the case, I hope you’ve found closure. This ongoing feud with punctuality sounds dreadful. And as for those cracks in the pavement, maybe you should avoid that particular road. Might I suggest cobblestones? Far less aggressive.

But I have to admit—the real highlight, for me, was your request for forgiveness. How brave of you to seek forgiveness in a letter where the word "sorry" never appears. Not even once. It appears that you have sprinkled sugar over your shortcomings in an attempt to sweeten the deal. But here’s the thing—I’ve never had much of a sweet tooth, as I’m sure you remember from our years together. Oh, wait… never mind.

As for forgiveness, well, I’d love to offer you some, but unfortunately, my dog ate your last chance. Poor thing—he couldn’t help himself. It was lying there, on the floor of my patience, which, incidentally, died some time ago. A quiet passing—natural causes. I held a small funeral. Your flowers never made it.

I think I must have loved you once. Strange how hard it is to remember now. I’d consult with my heart, but I’m afraid it’s been stuck in traffic for two and a half years. Construction, you know. They’re attempting to rebuild an old bridge. It isn’t going well.

In response to your question about having coffee, I am sorry to say that I will not be able to attend. I’m already busy with something that suddenly came up on the date we’ve yet to set. My sincerest apologies.

I wish you all the best. Honestly, I do. May your ears remain clear, your skies remain free of falling pianos, and your time be free of pesky cracks. And may you someday find the forgiveness you’re looking for—somewhere else.

Warm regards,

Me

As I folded the letter and slipped it into an envelope, I briefly considered adding glitter—just a pinch. You know, just enough to decorate every surface of his apartment and follow him around for a few weeks—months, tops. 

But in the end, I decided against it. I thought it best to be mature, so I sealed it up and sent it off. Glitter free.

Regrettably.