There is a drawer in my study that I rarely open. It sits beneath the writing surface, slightly to the left, and catches against the frame unless I lift it as I pull.
Inside are several envelopes, a few receipts, and a letter I wrote many years ago.
It has never been mailed.
I found it again last Thursday while looking for a small brass key. The envelope had yellowed along one edge. My handwriting was younger, more deliberate, and rather more concerned with appearing composed.
I knew what was inside before I opened it.
✧
There was a time when someone waited for me.
We had known each other long enough for certain formalities to disappear. Conversations continued well past their natural endings. Invitations required little explanation. There were evenings when neither of us seemed particularly eager to leave.
I enjoyed those evenings.
I also understood, though I was reluctant to admit it, that something was being asked of me.
I had opportunities.
I remember one evening particularly well. We had been walking after dinner, taking the longer route back because neither of us had suggested turning toward home. At the corner where we ordinarily parted, they stopped.
There was nothing theatrical about it.
They simply remained beside me, waiting.
I could have asked them to stay a little longer. I could have said what I had been thinking for weeks. I could have offered something more substantial than another pleasant evening.
Instead, I remarked on the hour.
They smiled, wished me goodnight, and went home.
I watched them leave.
✧
The following weeks were not unpleasant. That was part of the difficulty. We continued as before, though less frequently. Conversations grew shorter. Invitations became less certain.
Eventually, they stopped coming.
I told myself that circumstances had changed. People were busy. Lives moved in different directions. There was no reason to make more of it than necessary.
Months later, I wrote the letter. I folded the pages, placed them in an envelope, and addressed it.
I did not post it.
✧
Standing at my desk last Thursday, I unfolded it again. The paper had become brittle at the creases. It was longer than it needed to be. Several sentences struck me as unnecessarily elaborate.
One apology was followed almost immediately by an explanation, as though I had been negotiating the terms of my own responsibility.
Near the end I had written that I hoped we might see each other again.
I read the final paragraph twice. I had written that I wished things had happened differently.
There was no mention of who might have made them different.
I returned the pages to the envelope.
The brass key was in the drawer beneath it.
I found what I had come looking for and closed the drawer, lifting it where it catches.
The letter remains there.
So does the address.
✧
This letter is now part of the Conservatory — those who find one often need another.