The Letter

The tiny numbers on the grinder of her Breville machine have her thinking in years. How many years has it been since they last saw each other? She would want to know in the event they’d meet. At the very least, she would have a conversation starter. An icebreaker. “You know, I was thinking about it earlier, and I don’t think I’ve seen you in X years!” It may sound like a desperate thing to say, but she prides herself on being truthful and the truth is: she is a bit desperate. As she empties the beans into the grinder, she jogs her memory. Was it that trip to Amelia Island? Or the tiny-scale high school reunion during COVID years? That’s it. The 2020-ish get togethers- in all of their controversy. That’s simple math. 6 years. It’s been 6 years. That’s what they would have to cover. She’s watching the espresso drip from the portafilter when she feels a rush of nervous energy flood her system. Again, she has to be honest with herself. It’s more than 6 years she yearns to cover. It’s questions, too. Questions that could open old wounds, such as: “why haven’t we kept in touch?” “Why didn’t you respond to my letter?” “Why do things feel so fractured between us?” She weighs her espresso shot. She knows it’s asinine to judge the trajectory of her day based on the number on any scale- much less the espresso scale, but she does it anyway. 31 grams. 5 grams away from a perfect 2:1 ratio of the 18 grams of beans she fed the machine moments earlier. The shot is acceptable, drinkable, but amiss. Before she can extract anymore from the shot, even if only metaphorically, she hears her baby crying for her to get up from his crib.

Her baby boy and her precious girl. Oh, how they are bright spots in a world she already quite enjoyed, but now loves even more. Her children were one of the reasons she kept periodically knocking on a door to a house that many otherwise would’ve deemed vacant. She watched them living their childhood and thought of her own. The simpleness of it. The popsicles on a hot day. The doll house in the basement. The chalk stains on a favorite pair of jeans. All moments made that much sweeter by the presence of a friend. How could she have become so estranged from someone she grew up with? Especially in the absence of any major drama? At least in her eyes. The anxiety feeling rises again. Wondering if there’s something she is forgetting, something bad or dark, that has led to their current state of affairs.

By the time the baby and his sister allow for her to drink her latte, it has somehow cooled to a temperature below that of the room. She is anticipating a made-up meeting and her mind drifts to the weddings. Would they discuss them? Or would it be best to not go anywhere near them? If her wedding came up, she could blame COVID. She simply had to keep the guest count low in an abundance of caution. However, she can’t imagine talking about her wedding at all. Much has happened since that time. 5 years and 2 babies worth.

She would love to know about her wedding. She would love to somehow ask the right questions and respond the right sentiments that would perfectly translate: I completely understand why I wasn’t invited and it did not hurt me at all. It would be the truth. Because hurt and unease are two different feelings. The latter being the feeling that came up as she scrolled on instagram, on the day her son was born of all days, to see that the wedding weekend was happening. As she lay in the hospital bed completely adoring her new baby boy, her best childhood friend was getting married across the pond. The unease feeling in this context was familiar. It was the little voice that quietly demanded to know why things stood like they did. Before she could fully host the voice, hours-old infant care carried her away.

And despite the unease, she loved the spectacle of it. It was as close as a commoner could get to a royal wedding. A castle venue. A stunning white dress. Flower arrangements that say “if you have to ask…” She was always notably beautiful and on her wedding day, even more so.

It was all she would have wished for her. She knew that her friend had experienced an unequivocally harder hand of cards than herself and for that, she deserved it all and more. She couldn’t make sense of it but she looked at picture after picture, every one more perfect than the next and she desperately wanted to know, are you happy?

Time went on from the royal wedding and two under two was really what they said it would be. Over time, she got lost in pleas for her attention from two small and perfect creatures. They were skilled at needing her attention in very large ways at the same exact time. She loved it. She watched them grow. She thought of her childhood. She thought of her friend. Her time and energy were quickly whisked away before she could delve. The little voice came back every now and then. It was quiet, but it still wanted answers. Why aren’t you friends? Why can’t you reach out? So one day, she did.

She decided on a letter because of course she did. Letters don’t demand a response like a text or instant message. Letters also don’t notify the sender if they’ve been received. She figured these features would make it low stakes for both parties. She mentioned she had seen her wedding. Gorgeous, cinematic, picture perfect. She brought up her children and her life staying at home with them. Chaotic, boring, a dream come true, sometimes all within the same hour. She got her kids together for a polaroid and snapped their picture. For reasons she could not explain, It did not sit well with her that her best friend, albeit former, did not know what her children looked like. She put it neatly into its envelope and sent it on its way.