To The Letters From Kandace

You would arrive unexpectedly, edge peeking out from the collection of mail I’d grab on my way in the door. I spent another day practicing being in public, practicing making small talk and pretending to be normal. I would be exhausted and then see you.

She drew fish on the envelope. In grad school, I wrote poems about fish, to fish, for fish. Her last name was Fisher, nicknamed “The Fish.” Fish swam between us. We loved their other-worldliness. The quiet of fish.

She would tell me about her day, working in Santa Fe. A woman she met, later she fell in love, later she was married. “A wife,” she wrote, “I can’t believe I have a wife.” Hiking, thinking, writing. It’s as if she’s in the room with me. She’s handing me a cigarette and we smoke. She’s smiling and sitting cross-legged on the couch.

Three years before, when we all graduated and went our separate ways, I hugged her, drank another beer and said goodbye. I’d left a lot of friends in my life and knew the dance: keep in touch, write me, call me, let me know where you go. We didn’t dance. We knew. She was headed west and I north, and though we were dear friends, this was it. No hard feelings. We were happy for each other, but this is past.

And then my infant son died. And then, later, her first letter arrives. Four pages long, hand written with “l’s” that bent slightly over the other letters. She has heard about the baby, was shocked, wants to know about him, loves me. She writes about the wild turkeys on her hike. She writes about stars in the Santa Fe night.

Her letters break me apart and then put me back together. A little stronger. I can see, after reading her letters, a way to manage the rest of the day. I know this grief a little better.  I go back to you when I learn the news. A motorcycle accident on a highway. A guardrail. Someone has posted a photo of the spot. Open road. A curve. She would have had to lean into it. She would have a split-second to know it was trouble. We all die too young.