The letter

The woman hasn’t come to check her mail today. This is odd considering she has a habit of checking her mail at least twice a day. I’d call it an obsession, but everyone says she’s just waiting for children to write back. The woman is old. Floral dresses, multiple shades of red lipstick and her white hair curled in a bob suggested she is at least sixty. I wonder why she hasn’t checked her mail yet.

Every time I looked out of the window I saw the woman lurking around her mailbox. She rarely ever left the house for any other reason. The woman seemed lonely, her husband was dead. The only people who ever visited the old woman were: a nurse and a milkman. The nurse stayed with the woman till dusk. Well, at least the woman had some company during the day. But, who accompanied her at night?

It would be so boring wouldn’t it? To be at that age and have no one to talk to. It’s probably why she spends so much time on trying to make herself look good; it must keep her busy. She has four—no, five children. Maybe they live far, that’s why they don’t visit? Why don’t they reply to her letters? Are they busy? Perhaps they don’t care. Either way, it’s sad. No one deserves to be all alone.

Last Thursday, I decided to meet the woman. I’d want someone to meet me if I lived alone. The woman seemed excited. Walking past her mailbox, a speck of curiosity grew inside me. As a child, I loved opening the mailbox every day. I’d expect letters to magically appear. Sometimes my mother would write me letters. But this woman was no child. Why did she check her mail so often? Was it just another one of her obsessive tendencies? Was there any merit to her action? I wanted to ask, but I decided against it. It would be rude. Spending time with the woman made her happy. I didn’t know what I saw in her eyes: I think it was pity, and maybe, just maybe a hint of love. Was it really, though? I barely even knew this woman. A stranger, looking at me like that was unexpected. Why would she have any reason to pity me. I left without saying a word.

Today, leaning on the window sill, I observe at the old woman’s house. As if just staring at it will make the woman appear somehow. I wait for her to open the door and walk slowly toward the mailbox. Is she okay? What if she’s dead on the bathroom floor? What if she’s choked on her meal? What if she’s just asleep? I don’t know. Well, then, I must. I shouldn’t have abandoned the woman. I am guilty, the thought comes into my mind, as I rush to her house.

The mailbox stands on the edge of the pavement. A coat of bright blue paint covers a patchy pattern underneath. Ignoring the mailbox is hard. But, I have a job to do. Even after knocking several times, no one opens the door. I try the doorknob: it turns. What should I say? I don’t know this woman well. “Hello! Is anyone in here?” I holler. No answer. I climb up the stairs. There are five rooms in total. All of them are closed. I open each of the doors one by one. Four rooms are empty. No furniture. Absolutely nothing. The fifth room has a bed, a television and posters stuck on the wall. A child could have lived there. Something about it reminds me of when I was young.

Ten minutes pass. There isn’t any sign of the woman or the nurse. Maybe they’ve gone for a walk. Defeated, I step outside. The mailbox is calling me now. The hinges squeak softly. A stack of letters is neatly arranged in the mailbox. A second of doubt later, my hand reaches in. They’re all addressed to me. I open the envelope on the top of the stack. The top right-hand corner reads the date 20th November 1999. How is this possible? This is the letter. The letter my mother wrote to me on the day she killed my father and jumped off a cliff.