Dear Michael

The ink bottle clinked against her wooden desk as she took it out of the drawer. Quick scratches as she touched pen to paper, writing heartfelt letters to the same person, all while knowing they would never respond. 

She wrote to her son, whom she lost so many years back, she eventually gave up counting. Beginning with the usual "Dear Michael," she proceeded to write with frail hands, tapping her foot rhythmically against the hardwood floors. She informed him about her day, asked how he was doing, and put her heart into each word, ignoring the fact that she would not send it, and he would not return one. A part of her hoped that he would. A part of her hoped that he would appear on her doorstep, all grown up. He would have a high paid job, have children, and have gotten married. A happy marriage, unlike hers. All the things she never had as a young woman. But another part of her knew that she could hope all she wanted. She could hope, she could yearn all she wanted, and it would never be. 

Her tapping ceased as she signed the letter as usual, "All my love, your mother Emma", and sealed the yellowing paper inside a yellowing envelope. She melted green wax in a small pot and poured it over the envelope, stamping it with an intricate design of lilies and roses: her favorite. She quickly scribbled "Michael" on the front—though it was not quite a scribble because she wrote in neat cursive. She took out a white box the size of a book wrapped in a thin brown ribbon: the box for a baby rattle she wanted to give to Michael when her hair was a rich brown, now a silvery gray. Opening it she revealed many letters, all of which were addressed to the same little boy she lost at birth. Emma slowly placed it into the box, hands quivering a bit with old age, and closed the lid, tying the ribbon around it. 

Though writing letters by hand was unnecessary—one could easily send someone an email or a text due to today's modern world—she preferred to remain in the past. Writing hand-written letters reminded her of a time when she was younger and happier and free. The smell of the ink, the rough texture of the paper, they let her escape into little patches of memory that she dwelled in solitarily. Times when she could smile. Dreams where Michael was alive. 

She dreamt that he would visit her once every week with his wife and two children. For once, she would have been happy to be called "grandmother." The two would run into her arms gleefully and they would smile with her. She dreamt that Michael would talk with her. He would tell her about his day and ask how she was doing as she did in her daily letters for him. She dreamt that he would laugh with her about jokes only they understood until their stomachs ached. She dreamt that she would hold him in a warm, tight grasp as he cried with her during his worst moments.

She dreamt that he was with her, and that was all that mattered. It was all that she wanted. But, alas, those were just dreams. Those were just small places she built for herself whenever she put pen to paper for him. They were temporary, and they never lasted long. But she wished that they could last an eternity. 

. . .

It was dark and gloomy by the time she snapped out of her trance, pale moonlight spilling through the windows and illuminating her desk, worn from years of writing. As she staggered groggily towards her bed to get some well-needed rest for the night, something stopped her. She turned to face the desk, studying each chip in the paint and crack in the wood with sorrow and opened the drawer with the box containing all her letters. Emma gripped the box and shut her eyes tight. Tears slid down her face as she remembered the butterflies in her stomach when she was to have a child. Oh, she was so happy that day.

But she never got to experience any of his firsts. She never got to see him walk for the first time. She never got to hear him speak for the first time. She never got to see him smile for the first time. She opened her eyes, red and puffy from her crystalline tears. And then, she made a decision.

It wouldn’t be long until she saw her son.

It wouldn’t be long until she experienced all of his firsts.

. . .

The next morning, birds chirped and sang their songs, and golden sunlight filtered through the trees outside her window, bringing the old woman's bland apartment to life. She lay on her bed, still and peaceful, though her heartbeat left her when she had fallen asleep. She never looked calmer than she had that morning. The box containing her letters to Michael was no longer in her desk drawer, but it appeared instead in an old man's mail. 

. . .

The man thought strangely of the box, for he had lost the memory of the little rattle, but carried it into his house, limping a bit, his caramel-colored boots tapping against the gravel. Opening it, the man saw a note, folded small enough so that it could fit inside the box. He carefully and reluctantly unfolded it, tears shimmering in his hazel eyes as he remembered the woman and child he once loved, the woman and child he left. "Charles, it has been a very long time since you left.” He could never explain why he did so. Little did he know that his wife had constantly wondered about it. Was he not ready to have a family at that time? That seemed to be the most logical reason for it, he supposed. He found that he regretted it years later, and longed to see the both of them. “But do me one good favor: read the letters. You will find everything that you missed in the years when you were gone." it read in a neat cursive, “Love, Emma.”