The Drawer of Almost
Envelopes tied with tape, a pen with its cap on, and the correspondence that remains a possibility.
Tied, not sent
The drawer sticks in February, which feels thematically excessive. Inside it: a bundle of cream envelopes, a cotton tape, a pen I trust, and three beginnings that never became middles. I am not hiding them. I am keeping them at the temperature of almost.
A letter that is sent belongs to two people. A letter that stays in the drawer belongs to the weather in which it was nearly written. I am not sure which is the more accurate record.
Margins
I still write by hand when the thing matters, because the hand is slower than my wish to be clever. The blank card on the desk is not a performance of simplicity. It is a card I have not spoiled yet. There is a skill, unfashionable, in leaving a page able to become something.
Not every sentence deserves a stamp. Some of them deserve a drawer and a little more time.
A later kindness
Once a season I take the bundle out and read the beginnings. Most of them are kinder than whatever I would have posted on the day. One I might still send, with the date left honest. The others can stay tied. The tape is doing the work of a reply I am no longer required to make.
