The diary came in a box of old letters I’d never opened. The piano in the corner was out of tune, but I didn’t mind.
It had only three entries. My pen pal from decades ago, the one who wrote about her cats and the snow.
I sat in the plastic lawn chair, the one with the frayed strap, and turned the pages.
First entry: she was scared of the quiet. Second: she was sorry for something she never explained. Third: just my name, written twice.
I closed the diary. Forty years I’d carried it without reading it.
I thought of my wife, three states away, and the phone calls we let slip.
The weight I’d been holding, I set it down. Not because I was ready. Just because I finally could.