It was a road trip steeped in letters.
Reflective letters on highway signs. And stunted exit markers. Digital letters blinking on the dash; fictional letters winking inside my head. Letters carried inside a battered typewriter case. And in my back pocket.
Some were meant for outright dismissal. Especially the hypothetical ones. The ones yet to be written were better off being cheerfully ignored. Because words only seem to cause chaos these days. And I’m getting a little too old for those kinds of literary shenanigans.
Other letters were destined for a final delivery. Into the embrace of the coal-barged currents of the mighty Ohio. The ones carefully bundled up in a bright red ribbon. Because they deserved a little recognition. And a cheery reward after having slept dormant for too many years, hibernating in a stupid drawer.
I just didn’t know what else to do with them. Because it hurt too much keeping them around.
It was a simple enough preparation. Some might argue compulsive. Or one even bordering on insanity. But I needed to acknowledge the significance of those illegitimate words in a meaningful way. And to finally accept the enormity of the hurt they ultimately caused a trusting 🦊.
The dishonest words—because forever ended up meaning only two years. The typewritten words soon to embark on their one-way journey over to Mississippi. Because we never did make it over to see the Kankakee. Or walk barefoot in the grass along its channeled banks.
So surrendering them over to the flow of more productive currents was the best that I could do to fulfill broken promises. And to bring myself a much needed breath of closure.
The stark abusiveness of the newest purge of old loves briefly reminded me of a similar goodbye. The one said back when the world was on fire. And the whole of society was forced into lockdown. Those grim pandemical moments of fevered madness when nothing was guaranteed. And friends were dropping daily with the plague.
I surrendered over letters then, too. Only on that occasion it was my tender offering to all the old gods inhabiting a big lake. I remember the difficulty of facing that overnight drive. The sleepless one fueled by too much ephedrine. And nervous caffeine energy.
I can still recall with dirtbag clarity the burn of those poisons pumping through brittle veins. Because there wasn’t quite enough gas in other tanks. So something else had to combust in its place.
I guess the larger point is that it isn’t an unfamiliar behavior, this ritualistic purging of things. All the little post-it note endearments. And scraps of squirrelled paper marked with adoring, counterfeit sentiments. All the awkward birthday cards and the more tender Valentine memories.
But of all the letters travelling with me on that late summer escape, one stood out from all the others.
It was the letter that has been residing inside the case of one of my favorite typewriters. The letter left for me to find on that terrible and beautiful night. The letter I wasn’t sure I’d ever find the courage to open. Because I needed to be in a place better than an embarrassing boulevard hovel to face the harshness of her truth.
I took that letter with me on a sunset walk along the banks of the Ohio. Sat under the stoic solidity of an ancient oak. Felt the fading warmth of an Indiana sun on my face while staring at the Kentucky cliffs. And delighted in the simple soothing songs of a more gentle nature.
Unsteady hands carefully opened the envelope as I committed myself to the moment.
Out on the river, a coal barge churned by. It reminded me in brutal industrial fashion just how unceasingly life moves on. Even if it’s against the push of unfriendly currents.
I retrieved a folded page of purple paper. Lifted it up against a scruffy, road weary face—I wanted to remember the dance of her perfume. Because I have been missing the smell of her.
Then I read the words.
And had my heart broken all over again.
The vulnerability of her soft sentiments demanded protection. So I tucked them inside the protective armour of a leather jacket. There is a weighted significance attached to last words. One that makes them inherently precious. So I knew that I had to keep them safe.
Reminded by the numerous coal-laden platforms scuttling the line between two states, I accepted that I couldn’t remain still forever. So I barged out into a world that felt like it would be forever different.
Because it is.
I don’t really remember how exactly I got there. But I eventually found myself back on the bridge. I was back on that precarious ledge between the world that was, and the world with which I was left. There, in the company of the ghosts of old arguments, I accepted my inheritance of weighted sin.
A ribboned bundle of hurt was released back into the wild. And tumbled gracefully until landing with a resounding splash. It was a necessary baptismal unique to the ending of our story together. One which arguably should have happened sooner.
But sometimes, it’s just fucking hard to let things go.
From the elevated steel view of that 421 bridge, I made temporary peace with the too many broken hearts left behind. And the too many pointless miles yet to be traveled.
I also realized that my story isn’t quite over.
Because there are too fucking many letters left for me to write…
