The Letter, Karla Gabriela Abreu

THE LETTER

Karla Gabriela Abreu

It sits there. On the coffee table, the paper a little yellowed, little warped from dried-up tear stains, a little frayed from shaking fingers tracing every word, every night.

I stare at it from the couch. From the left corner of the couch, yours was always the right side. The blue, battered blanket wrapped tightly around my shoulders–the same one you would always steal during movie nights, curl up in, dive in and shut out the world in. I kept the blanket.

It sits there. The edge of it trapped between the table and that hideous purple polka-dotted mug you loved, the one I could never put in the dishwasher so it wouldn’t break, the one I couldn’t touch, the one that had to be exhibited on the kitchen counter, a permanent reminder of you. I kept the mug.

It sits there. The paper glowing in the light of the fireplace as Bear lounges in front of the flames his face is a little droopier his tail a little heavier but he still carries the duck you gave him for Christmas.

The one that doesn’t squeak so you could sleep at night, the one from when he was a puppy, the one that he still carries into the bedroom and lays on the right side of the bed. We kept the duck.

We kept the mug and the blanket and the duck, and the hole-ridden robe and the cracked wooden paint brushes and the five-stringed guitar, and the never-ending collection of ear-dogged books and the nonpaired socks and the faded flannel and yet everything still feels so empty.