Dear Louise,
The leash came off the hook this morning. Milo’s been gone three months, but I couldn’t bring myself to move it. His bowl’s still by the fridge.
I’m a fish counter at the hatchery. Forty-nine years old. Married forty-one years to a man who once taped a note over the thermostat that says ‘DO NOT TOUCH — 68° IS PERFECT.’ I never touch it. I never touch anything I’m told not to.
But this morning I took the leash. It felt like the last thing that still smelled like him. The crossing guard — Mrs. Delgado, silver whistle, waves at everyone — she saw me standing on the corner with it. She just waved. Didn’t say a word. That wave undid me.
I cried right there by the crosswalk. Not loud. Just tears running down into my jacket collar. She kept waving at the kids, pretending not to notice. That’s the kind of kindness you get in a beach town off-season. Everyone knows how to look away.
I counted fish this afternoon. Same as every day. But something shifted. I’m the kind of woman who takes the leash off the hook now. Who cries on a corner and lets a crossing guard see. Who writes a letter to her little sister because she can’t say it out loud yet.
You always said I kept everything locked so tight. Maybe I’m learning to leave the door ajar. Just a crack. Enough for the salt air to get in.
Love, Davey