Dear Mrs. Benson,
I found your hospital parking validation ticket in my coat pocket today. It's been seven years since I sat with you that afternoon, but the stub still has the faint ink of the date.
I took the long way home on purpose. Past the hospital, past the corner where your daughter and I used to buy snow cones, past the magnolia tree we climbed when we were ten.
I don't know why I do it. The direct route is faster by twelve minutes. But that detour, that slow curve along the bayou, it's the only part of my day that feels like mine.
You told me that day in the hospital room that the best thing about a small town is the long way home. I didn't understand then. I thought you were just being polite, a way to fill the silence.
But I've been taking that route for seven years. Every time I pass the tree, I remember your laugh. Every time I see the hospital sign, I think of the way you squeezed my hand.
I never mailed this letter. I didn't know the right address. But I wanted you to know that your validation ticket, that little scrap of paper, it saved my day. It reminded me to take the long way.