Over the summer months, he had been traveling around the country visiting family and friends who had once been important to him, but with whom he, for one reason or another, had lost contact with.
Because she hadn’t been invited, she hadn’t asked if she could accompany him on this sacred journey of rediscovery. So, at odd intervals, when he had almost become little more than a memory, a letter would arrive. After the date, a location and her name, there came a plea: “Please excuse my horrible, scribbly handwriting.” Everything else that followed was mostly unreadable.
By the end of August, his return looming on her horizon, she had a checkered word map of his pilgrimage stuck in her head – a collection of pages upon which miscellaneous, recognizable nouns and adjectives like sick uncle, dry, hot, prairie heat, old girlfriend, laughter, sister, jumped out at her and attacked.
Letters – Fragment #60