She sat at the desk, tears once again filling her eyes. Looking at the pile of letters makes her heart break a little, every time she sees them. She needed them to be real, but they were never mailed. They had no actual destination, just in her imagination. It’s the way she handles it, learned to deal with it, otherwise she couldn’t go on.
Every day she writes another, some days more than one. She notes the weather, what’s blooming in the garden, what friends she met for dinner, all casual conversations she would have said to him if he were near. And then the love is written, expressing her passion for him and how she wished he was there. She speaks of her loneliness when she goes to bed at night without him. She tells him how much she misses him and longs to join him.
She writes these words every day. When the week is done she gathers them in a ribbon and attaches a rose. She makes the journey to his grave and leaves them there. She knows he finds them because each time she returns, they’ve been opened and read. She picks up the older, weathered bunch, holds them to her heart and returns home.