Dear Michael,

I hope this finds you well.

It’s been too long since I laid eyes on you last, and the leaves have long since turned red and scattered themselves among the thinning grass of our old garden. Now, they have all turned to mulch, I can see, as the snow melts through the last dredges of Winter.

Sometimes I still see you through the cold frosted window. You wipe the back of your hand across your forehead in the sweltering heat, a few thin strands of red hair stuck with sweat to your eyebrows.

I never regret what I did. Even now I, as I remember the tears wrapped around your muddy green eyes, there is no remorse. Still I think of the wrinkles of your eyes, the crooked angles of your nose, with a fond kindness that I thought I’d never have for you again.

The day you weren’t here anymore, I washed the blood from my hands and sang you a sweet song, a requiem for our love that I hoped in earnest you would hear.

I hope soon to join you in that far away place.

All my love,
Emily