Boots made for Talking

Dear Victor

I haven't yet decided whether or not to send this letter. It would surely be unwise, but wisdom has never been a virtue to which I laid claim. If these pages do find their way into your hands I hope they find you well.

I am writing mainly to say that I recieved the package you sent. The big cardboard box containing the last of my things was sitting in front of my door, pretty exciting in spite of everything. I don't think anyone has ever mailed anything to me before. It was a little strange not speaking for two months and then recieving a package from you. Just as we agreed of course, but rather an odd state of affairs all the same. The note you attached struck the perfect balance, not cold, but decidedly cordial.

Of course upon inspection everything was accounted for, all the little gifts I had posted, notes and drawings, the odd piece of jewelery. How very like you to have been so thorough. And how thoroughly defeated I felt, I'll admit, realizing you really did keep nothing. Undoubtedly the best decision for both of us, I know. And yet...

I am grateful that you satisfied my strange request for your old boots. You've always been a man of your word but I wouldn't have blamed you for keeping them. I all but cried when I laid eyes on them. Perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to have asked for them, not conducive to closure and moving on and so forth. Still, I was thrilled to see that you had sent them. I confess I clomped about in them a bit before putting them in a sort of honorary position at the front door. Hopelessly too big for me, but they make for a comforting sight when I come home from work. Mrs Choi from next door happened to catch me placing them and her head bobbed in approval atop her many scarves. I think I've told you before about her many warnings. I put a 'Home sweet home' ribbon on the outside of my front door. Not even my decorating taste, but I hate how all the apartment doors on my floor look the same. That evening she waited for me to get back from work, pulled it off my door and handed it to me remarking darkly, "People will know a woman lives here". In subsequent earnest lectures about open windows and extra locks she recommended having some men's shoes at the door should anyone ever fulfill her morbid expectations. "Even if they get in, they will think a man is coming home." So for that reason, if no other, they will remain there. Closure be damned!

Having just said that, I should probably be getting round to that damned closure sooner or later. You are quite right as usual, if we are to be fair to eachother and ourselves, to our friends and potential future partners we really must make a clean break of it. I thought of you the day before yesterday, I took a little walk along the river during my lunch hour (a bit risky since I'm not really supposed to leave the premises during work hours but none saw me go). I went further up the river than I ever have before. If there is one thing I have gained from missing you, it's a pair of legs. The river was all iced over, and it had snowed on top. I stood at the edge, shivering and thought how you would have loved it. You do so love the cold. I noticed footprints on the snow in the middle, but couldn't for the life of me trace them back to the bank in any direction. I concluded whoever made them must have jumped and found myself siezed by a terrifying thrill, a sudden urge to test my theory. But I can't swim very well and there wasn't anyone around. Instead, I just stared and swayed slightly, recklessness receding. You would have enjoyed all of it. Marveling at the frozen silence. Pacing the bank and muttering quizzically over the inconsequential mystery. In no rush to go anywhere else, just together at the same riverbend. I wish I could have seen you see it all.

It brought to mind the time you edged out onto the ice at a different river, a long while ago now, the way you shifted slowly and calmly. I couldn't help but trust the way you moved, even in those boots (which have no grip by the way). Head down, hands in your pockets, the picture of content concentration. If it were me I would have had my arms out, anticipating a certain fall. And then, a sudden sound of cracking beneath your boots split your face into the biggest grin. A dangerous, delightful gleam in the fracturing of your cool demeanor. You inched further still and I glowed with admiration even as my hands clenched, imagining over and over how useless I would be at attempting to save you if it came to that.

I got home late that day, and figured out that a few pairs of thick socks would bring my feet up to size. Perhaps I will take the boots out on some reasonably thick ice next winter.

The last time we spoke you mentioned having possible plans to move. I have a few things I have collected that I think you would like. If I end up sending this letter I may include them. We've blocked eachother on everything, but I still have your address, for now. A quiet voice is telling me that this isn't a good idea. The gifts. This letter. It's telling me that what you really need from me is nothing. But it's an active nothing and it will take work to ensure you get it. And we have done well so far! Still, another desperate feeling is overwhelming me (clearly). One last gesture and that'll be the end of it. I'm sure you wouldn't respond. You've always been good about keeping yourself in check, it would really be the end of it then.

I suppose there is nothing more to say, and everything I have said I probably shouldn't have. Perhaps this letter will sit in my drawer until I stumble across it, revisit it with passing nostalgia in some hopeful future. Who knows.

I hope you are doing well, everyone here is well. My address will stay the same for a while should you ever need it.

Yours

Robin

P.S: Happy Birthday.

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