"Do you think about mommy?"
"I always think about her, sweetie."
"The first year was really hard. I wrote letters, and left flowers for her everyday. She loved flowers... I never knew where the letters went. Sometimes the rain washes them away, sometimes I would drop it in the mailbox."
"Did she ever get the letters?"
"No", he said laughing. "It was silly for me to drop it in the mailbox. But some part of me, hoped she got them." Her father turned and looked out the window.
For to send a letter is to move somewhere, without moving anything but your heart.
Miles away. Bigger on the inside than it was on the outside. Standing guardian to those who entered, through splashes of puddles, against crashing cars, or dogs that suddenly decided to stop for a pee. A handle that swung the door open and closed. Greeting the hands of all kinds of people in all types of places. A strange blue container.
He sang softly to her into a gentle sleep, rocking back and forth in his arms. And when she was asleep, he set her down on the crib turning on the baby monitor in case she awoke, cleaning the house, and doing all the necessary chores. When everything was done, he turned on his desk light and began writing. Letters written in beautiful calligraphy, there was a drawing, and left with a quote, words of inspiration, to say what he couldn’t express, to his love.
“There, there.”
Cradling her in his arms, to her favorite tree, on the sunny days, the rainy days, the snowy days, on days when leaves fell.
She was just a few years older now, with her raincoat and rain boots on, jumping in puddles and creating a splash. Running up to the mailbox with a letter in hand, dropping it in.
“Come on honey, we’re going to be late.”
