Dear Walter, it's 2:17 AM again. I looked at your watch on the nightstand. It's still stopped at this minute.
Twenty years ago, your heart stopped at 2:17 AM. I thought I'd get it fixed, but I never did. I like knowing exactly when you left.
I found your old swim cap in the junk drawer today. The one from that trip to the lake we never took. I couldn't throw it away.
The school janitor used to wind the big clock in the hallway every morning. I watched him from my desk. He always said, 'Time stops for no one, kid.' But your watch did.
I'm retired from the mill now. The house is quiet. The suburb is asleep. I'm the only one awake, thinking of you.
I never had kids. Sometimes I wonder if they'd have your eyes. But then I think, no, I had you. That was enough.
I'm going to put the swim cap back in the drawer. And I'm going to leave your watch untouched. Maybe I'll write you another letter tomorrow night.