Dear Marge,
I still take the long way on purpose. Past your old house on Maple, the one with the porch swing long gone.
The wristband from that 1997 rain-shortened game is still on my wrist. Ink's smudged to nothing now.
My hands are stiff from writing tickets all day outside the base gates. Eighteen bucks an hour, but I'm saving up. For what, I don't know yet.
Every shift I pass your house. The rose bushes you planted are gone, replaced by gravel and a chain-link fence.
That rained-out game—we sat in my truck for two hours, listening to it pound the roof. You said it was the perfect date.
This wristband is nearly threadbare. I could slip it off easy now, but I don't.
I guess this is my way of saying I still take the long way. Some routes you never stop driving, even after the destination's gone.