The funeral was yesterday. I flew in from the patch and the whole town smelled different — rain and pine instead of diesel.
My aunt kept every letter I ever sent her. Thirty years of my life, tied in bundles with kitchen twine, stacked in a shoebox under her bed.
Her neighbor brought a tuna casserole in a dish I didn't recognize. I thanked her, but I haven't eaten. The dish still sits on the counter, a reminder that this kitchen belongs to someone else now.
I woke up at 5 AM, jetlagged and hollow. The house was silent in a way I've never heard — no hum of a fridge, no clock ticking, just the creak of an old place settling.
I opened the top bundle. Letters from my twenties, when I was broke and proud and never called because a stamp was cheaper. She kept every one.
I sat on her couch and read through them until the sun came up. Each one felt like a conversation I'd forgotten we were having.
Living alone for the first time at sixty-one. I thought I'd feel free. Instead, I feel like I'm still trying to tell her where I've landed.
She always said, "Write me from wherever you land." I guess that's what I'm doing now.