Linger On

Upon pondering the string of dominoes between the present and the past, the teacher spoke of an assignment each year where she has her students write a letter to themselves which she will mail to them four seasons later.

While departing towards the rest of academia, she called my name. I turned and saw her holding up a letter.

"This guy killed himself before I got a chance to send it to him."

My jaw hit the floor. With an exhale of slight shock I backed up and accelerated to physics.

Suicide still grasps onto an ounce of me. The ghost of the wild red haired woman has long ago faded back into the old pictures. Yet the ghost of the floor falling out from under me remains.

Did that boy know he was never going to get that letter? Or did he honestly think the future did not curve to a dead end any time soon?

What would have happened if that letter was sent? My teacher still hasn't opened it. The stark simplicity of it's patience scares me. The stamp happily waits to meet its maker.

That letter held that boys hopes for the future. What if he had already planned on ending the seconds? If she had read it, where would they be?


In spite of the freshly citrused poker that rips through your heart valves when that three syllable vibration taps out upon your eardrums, reverence still takes it's seat.

We look at death as an unreachable chasm. Those passed knew something we didn't. Non existence deserves it's respect.


Call me petty, but that boy still has a letter waiting for him.

And I plan to make sure its delivered.