Love,
A.
I stopped breathing for a moment.
Daniel watched me quietly.
My eyes blurred.
This grief was different from the grief after Arthur died.
That grief had felt like falling through a floor.
This was softer.
A door opening unexpectedly onto a room I thought I would never see again.
“He wrote this?”
“Apparently.”
“I never saw it.”
“He probably forgot he wrote it.”
“That also sounds like him.”
Daniel smiled.
I folded the note carefully.
“He would have liked your place.”
“I think so.”
“He would have made fun of the community yoga.”
“He made fun of everything involving flexibility.”
We laughed.
I took Arthur’s note home and placed it beside his photograph.
Not inside the blue folder.
Some things should not be filed.
That summer, I flew to Chicago for the first time since moving west.
