Closure | David Obuchowski
The envelope was already partially open, the flap peeling up as if maybe you hadn’t licked it enough for it to stick. But after I read your letter, that couldn’t have been the case. You wouldn’t have gone to all that effort and then not have sealed the envelope properly. It must have been the adhesive. Cheap glue. Or old perhaps. It must have given way when it was already in transit. Had you seen that it wasn’t sealed, you would have taped it, ensuring the letter’s safety. So it wasn’t your fault. Not that you’d agree. From what you wrote, you’re all too willing to blame yourself.
Well I saw straight away that it wasn’t addressed to me, that it was for someone who lived five blocks away. A stranger on the same postal route as me. The mailman must have been in a rush. Or he must have been lazy. Or he must have been careless in his sorting. Or maybe that loose corner of the flap had just enough adhesion left in it to stick to a piece of my mail, like the seeds of a weed that cling to your shoelaces and the hem of your trousers. Hitchhikers we called them when we were kids. When you were a kid, you never would have imagined pleading for your own freedom. And yet.
So, for whatever reason, the envelope came to me, a stranger to you—not to him, a stranger to me, and a person who you hoped would become a stranger to you once again.
Had the envelope been sealed, I would have scrawled on it wrong address or misdelivered and placed it back into my mailbox for the error to be corrected. Or perhaps I would have even walked it over to this nearby stranger and slipped into his mail slot, or beneath his door. Maybe I would have even written a note on it. Mailman delivered this to my house by accident. Cheers, a neighbor.
But instead, I could see your neat cursive hand in navy ink. I could make out words. Love and sorry and time and wrong and happy and sorry and sorry and sorry again. Well, I had to read the rest, didn’t I?
Three pages. Six, considering they were double-sided.
You tried to take the blame. You cast yourself as the villain. But that’s not what villains do. He was luckier than he knew. People like him always are. You gave him everything he ever wanted. So why give him one last thing? Why give him your navy ink, your neat cursive hand, your stamp that says forever for a letter that yearns for never again?
Closure is too precious for the likes of him. Let him wonder instead.
About the Author:
David Obuchowski is a prolific and award-winning writer of fiction as well as longform nonfiction, some of which has been adapted for film and television. His work has appeared in Acturus (Chicago Review of Books), Road & Track, Baltimore Review, Salon, West Trade Review, Fangoria, and others. He co-authored the children’s book, How Birds Sleep (2023, Astra), which collected a number of prestigious honors. www.DavidObuchowski.com