He was standing in my open doorway for a long while just watching me. I was meditating in a chair in my living room which was attached to every other room in my flat. Open floor plan they call it. The postman, dressed in his finest post outfit. Me, in pj pants and a dirty white t-shirt. I had barely slept in two days because my anxiety was high.
“I have a letter from your dad.”
“I can’t sleep,” I said.
“Would a letter from your dad help?”
“My dad’s the reason I can’t sleep.”
The postman thought it over and put the letter on the cabinet near my door.
“Letters from family are important,” he said
“He’s dying,” I replied, knowing he has been dying for years.
“Well, maybe he’s dead,” the postman said.
I perked up and mouthed his words to hear them in my own voice.
“Yea,” I said. “Maybe he is.”
“Read your letter,” the postman said, and as an afterthought: “… and get some sleep. I think you will rest.”
He left and I got up and read the letter. I fell asleep crying and woke up at night. The light from the outside lamp pooling into my apartment. There was a soft knock on my open door and my girlfriend slipped into bed with me. She knew. The letter was still on the cabinet. All she could do was rub my back until I fell to sleep again.
