The Letter

You've had a rough six months. Hell, it's been a rough six years. Ever Since cancer took Doris. If there's a silver lining there, and you don't really believe there is, it has to be how fast it took her. She didn't have to go through any prolonged pain, suffering, treatment, wondering how long she had left. That was a mercy. Maybe the lack of kids, too. It was hard on Doris, and hard on you. But she didn't leave any grieving kids behind.

The silver lining, if there was one, or maybe two, was heavily tarnished. Days, weeks, months, years passed. They were all the same. Just a long, dull, empty blur. Do the same thing every weekday. Get up, take a shower, shave, brush your teeth, get dressed. Nuke a frozen breakfast sandwich in the microwave, or have a bowl of cereal. Go to work. Sell cars, or not. Offer to work extra hours, listen to the boss's denial, go through a drive-through on the way home to pick up dinner. Come home, eat, watch the news.

Doris loved to watch the news with you, then talk about what was happening in the world. She had a way of seeing the positive in every news story. When the COVID-19 pandemic hit, she pointed out how many people had a great opportunity to spend more time with their spouses and children. Some kids were more suited to education at home and online. Others had the chance to get new technical skills or improve and make more use of those they had. When tornado alley suffered devastation, Doris reminded you how many wonderful people chipped in to donate to those helping, to give blood, and just to help out neighbors.

That's when she finally convinced you to give blood. You were already tithing, giving a tenth of what you earned to the church. Well, over the years you switched from giving 10% to the church to giving 5% to the church and 5% to your favorite charity of the year. Until Doris talked you into giving 10% to each, the church, and St. Jude's Children's Hospital. You're still doing that, even though you wonder sometimes if it is just a habit or in loving memory of Doris. Of course, you love her; past tense isn't right for that. And you remember her. But you're also too apathetic to consider changing a long-time habit.

Now? Your positive side of everything is gone, along with Doris. When you watch the news, there isn't anyone to talk to about it. You don't get to discuss the merits of two or more charities and decide together where your money should go. You just pick one. For the last six years you haven't bothered to switch; just give to St. Jude's every year. And you still give blood, once every six months. It might help somebody, but it won't help a cancer victim.

You work fewer hours on Saturday because all the part-timers want their hours on the weekends. The dealership is closed on Sunday. So the weekends all seem really long, and hard. And lonely. The news on national channels gets repetitive, with the same news item repeated 10-20 times a day, or so it seems. Local news offers more variety, less interest, at least to you.

You know what you need, you just don't know where you're going to get it. You need a swift kick in the butt, a twisted arm, a bent ear – you need someone to make you face your need to live again. That would be Doris if she was here. She's not. You could call your son, out in Los Angeles. But he doesn't seem to have time for you any more, ever since he started producing movies. You're lucky if you even get a text from him on Father's Day.

Your daughter's been living in the wilds in Canada. Or New Zealand. Or down the street. She's been incommunicado ever since the funeral.

You know why she's out of the picture. That dominating Neanderthal she married doesn't want her to have anything to do with you. Ever since you told him what you thought of him and his antiquated view of male domination in a marriage. And your suspicion that he had no idea what antiquated meant. Maybe if you hadn't actually called him a Neanderthal, claiming that was another word that was inscrutable to him with his circumscribed vocabulary, there might have been a minuscule chance for an apology and reconciliation. But Doris wasn't there to calm you down.

You could always give Bob, one of your best friends from Navy days, a call. Oh, wait; Bob passed away the year after Doris died. From cancer, of course. No more calling Bob to talk over the idea for a story, or what the new cars were like. Bob was no Doris, naturally. But he knew you well enough to know when to tell you to put the brakes on, slow down, and think a lot more before speaking.

But there is no Bob, there is no Doris, there is no son, there is no daughter. There's just you. You and your banal, humdrum, rut-filled existence. Your get up, do your ablutions, eat, go to work, fail, grab food on the way home, nuke the food, eat the food, watch the news, go to bed, insipid life.

Oh, you almost forgot. Between eating dinner and watching the news you go out and check the mail. Better go do that now. It's important to keep up the rituals. Or is it? You're not expecting anything, other than bills and advertisements. Maybe you should climb out of your rut and do something different. Go to the garden shop, pick up some new flowers to plant, come home, and do a little gardening.

Doris loved to putter about in the yard. Pulling weeds, trimming bushes, telling you which high branches to trim. And planting, every spring. Go pick out some new flowers, bring them home, figure out where they would do the best depending on how much sun and shade they needed, and plant them lovingly in just the right spot.

You're right, gardening was Doris's thing, not yours. You loved helping her, watching her, breathing in her beatific smile. No garden shop. Still, maybe something different is just what the doctor ordered. Or would be, if you went to see her. Something different, but not the garden shop. Go bowling, then. Doris hated bowling.

But she didn't let that stop her from going to support you. She even joined you on that mixed doubles league, because it's what you wanted. She loved to laugh, making fun of herself and her low scores. You love to hear her laugh. Better switch to loved her laugh, not love her laugh. You'll never hear that laugh again. Except in your mind. Forget bowling and the garden center.

Past tense; loved her laugh. Past tense, loved her. No, that can be present tense. You still love her, you'll always love her. You just won't share life with her any longer. You won't feel her love and support going forward. So forget about going forward. Stay in your rut. Maybe the steepening sides of the dark canyon of routine will dull her memory. Before you forget, you should go check the mail anyway. After all, it's another part of your humdrum existence. And the mailman hates it when you leave old mail in the box, piling up. You don't really blame him for that. And you don't like it when you have a double handful of mail to bring in. So go check the mail, and get on with nothing.

You see the neighbor's mail flag is down, so the mailman has been here. You open the locking mailbox and peer in. Whoa! The pile of letters looks bigger than usual. Did you forget to pick the mail up yesterday? The day before yesterday? For the past week? Well, you're here now, checking the mail. No matter when you last did so. Grab the mail, close and lock the box, start walking back to the house. Take a look at the pile of mail in your hands as you walk.

Yep. Bills and adverts. The electric company, gas company, phone, water. You still haven't decided to have automatic direct payments. Maybe that will be the change you need. No, not really. Then it probably wouldn't matter if you ever checked the mail. Except for the ads. They always come, even if most of them are addressed to "occupant."

These are larger. Must be the advertisements you're thinking about. Here's one for hair renewal. You've still got a full head of hair. Toss that. This real estate agent wants to buy your house, “as is.” He's using an old picture. Doris's little red Miata is sitting in the driveway. No, you don't want to sell. Yet. Toss that one, too. Who is this person? Johnny Kidd. At least Johnny did some homework. He addressed this to you, not to Doris or Occupant.

Male enhancement drug, CBD, a political ad. Toss, toss, toss. Oh yeah, there's an election in a few more months. You think it's in a few months. You're surprised you haven't been getting these political fliers sooner. Or have you?

Hmmm. Something seems stuck in between this ad for Mayor and the one for CBD. It's a letter. A real, live letter. You've got to see this; who and where it's from, who it's addressed to . . . probably to George, who lives next door. Your mailman never seems to make a mistake; must have been a temp working today. No, it's addressed to you and has the right address. What does the return address say?

You look at the return address in the upper left corner of the envelope. Then you stop right where you are, just outside the front door, and look again. Is this a joke? You look around. Where's the hidden camera? This is pretty awful. Surely no television show would do this to you, or to anyone. Would they?

You don't see a hidden camera. Of course, a hidden camera wouldn't be very useful if you could see it easily. And you don't see anyone nearby, waiting to have a chuckle over your reaction. You stare at the envelope again, right at the return address. You feel rooted to the spot. You stare at the upper left corner of the envelope for six long minutes. It feels longer than that, somehow.

Hand-written. Elegant, flowing script. Just a name, no address. Just a single name – Doris. How can this be? Is it a joke, some dark humorless prank? Did Doris leave something for someone to send you six years after she passed away? It seems highly unlikely. You'd better go inside, sit down, have a long, deep drink of something cold, and open it.