“They came as a pair. He kept his, and I took mine when I left.”
“He kept an old blue coffee mug in his cupboard. Chipped handle. He wouldn’t let me touch it.”
Michael looked up.
His face changed completely.
“Mine was blue too,” he said. “They came as a pair. He kept his, and I took mine when I left.”
I stared at him.
Then, finally, he reached for the first letter and opened it carefully.
“All these years?”
Michael looked toward the box.
“Apparently both of us were good at keeping things we pretended didn’t matter.”
Then, finally, he reached for the first letter and opened it carefully.
The letters gave him pieces of the father he had spent decades trying not to miss.
“He remembered Mrs. Nolan’s dog?”
Some irritated him.
“He still thought I should have stayed.”
Others made him laugh.
“He remembered Mrs. Nolan’s dog?”
One letter made him stop.
I heard a Chopin piece today and wondered if you still play it badly on purpose.
Adriel had written:
I heard a Chopin piece today and wondered if you still play it badly on purpose.
Michael laughed, then covered his eyes.
“I did.”
He read until he needed a break, then started again.
Michael opened it but pushed it toward me.
Eventually, only one remained.
The final letter was dated six months before Adriel died.
Michael opened it but pushed it toward me.
“You read.”
“Okay.”
I barely remembered the conversation.
Don’t miss
Adriel wrote about a Sunday after church.
He mentioned sitting at my kitchen table while I complained about an old friend I had stopped calling after an argument.
I barely remembered the conversation.
Apparently, I had said:
“People lose good people because neither one wants to knock first.”
Michael looked at me.
I spent half my life waiting for my son to knock when I was the father.
“You said that?”
“I guess.”
He continued reading.
Adriel had written:
I spent half my life waiting for my son to knock when I was the father. I should have gone first.
He stared down at the page for a long time.
Michael stopped.
His mouth tightened.
He stared down at the page for a long time.
Finally, he asked:
“Where is he buried?”
I told him.
He gave me a tired smile.
Michael folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope.
“Can we go tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow is Sunday.”
He gave me a tired smile.
“That seems appropriate.”
During the drive, he asked questions about Adriel’s routines.
The next morning, I picked him up.
He carried something wrapped in a towel.
During the drive, he asked questions about Adriel’s routines.
“Which pew?” Which hymn? Where did he buy coffee?”
At church, Michael sat in Adriel’s usual seat beside me.
During the final hymn, he quietly sang every word from memory.
He said little.
During the final hymn, he quietly sang every word from memory.
After church, we drove to the cemetery.
Michael stood at Adriel’s marker without speaking.
Then he unwrapped the towel.
“Apparently we’re both idiots.”
Inside was another blue coffee mug with a chipped handle.
The matching one.
I looked at him.
“You really kept it.”
“Apparently we’re both idiots.”
“You should’ve mailed one, Dad.”
He crouched and placed it beside the stone.
“You should’ve mailed one, Dad.”
His voice broke.
He cleared his throat.
“Just one.”
Then he looked away.
Weeks later, someone knocked on my door just before church.
“I probably should’ve written one too.”
We stayed until he was ready to go.
Weeks later, someone knocked on my door just before church.
Michael stood outside holding two coffees.
“One of these yours?”
I took it.
At the passenger door, Michael paused.
“Depends. Is it terrible church coffee?”
“Worse. Gas station.”
“Adriel would approve.”
We walked toward my car.
At the passenger door, Michael paused.
“Hope he doesn’t mind.”
“Was this his seat?”
“Every Sunday.”
Michael opened it.
“Hope he doesn’t mind.”
I looked at the empty seat.
“He won’t.”
