Letters

I need to get rid of your stupid letters.  They'er sitting on my bureau, folded sloppily, envelopes ripped, ink fading, but for some reason, I just can't bring myself to dispose of them.  They're heavy with memories, saturated with "I love you"s and "I miss you"s and "Can't wait to see you"s.  That's funny.  They're covered with exotic stamps and postmarks, some smelling faintly of some unfamiliar, other-worldly substance.  Some of them are decorated with little sketches, or meticulously pressed flowers, little things that I used to smile over, and show off to my friends, just to prove to them that I did, in fact, have the best boyfriend ever.

I remember asking you why I could never come with you on your trips.  You'd smile patronizingly at me, smooth my face with your thumbs, and kiss my forehead, all the while telling me that it just didn't work out for this time, but that you'd write me everyday, and get me something special.  I'd quash the feeling of disappointment quelling in my stomach, and tilt your head down so I could kiss your lips.  

I always helped you pack your bags, made many a late night toothpaste run, drove you to your four a.m. flights, all without complaint.  I accepted your convincing kisses, your sweet letters, your meaningless trinkets, all without question.  Looking back now, I must have been blind to have missed what was about as obvious as a rose in a field of weeds.  When I got that last letter, the one written in girly handwriting on plain white paper, I just stood in the middle of my room, reading it and re-reading it.  Your girlfriend, she said.  Your pregnant girlfriend.  Your pregnant girlfriend, who you had been with for the past two and a half years. 

You tried to lie your way out of it, oh, of course you did.  But the evidence was overwhelming.  I hung up on you in a flurry of tears and angry words, and ripped up every single letter you'd ever given me.  I gathered them all in my hands, and stood over the fireplace, ready to burn them, but for some reason, I can't do it, so I dump them into a drawer and cover them with an old blanket.

I let them sit there for days, weeks, until one day, I came across a tiny ivory elephant sculpture you'd bought me in India, and I knew I had to find them.  I spent four hours meticulously taping them all back together, until they were a patchwork of broken memories and broken hearts.  Then I put them on my bureau and burst into tears.

I need to get rid of them.  Every time I look at your letters, my heart aches, and my stomach fizzles, and my eyes hurt.  Sometimes, I pick them up and contemplate just throwing them into the recycling and letting them become someone else's problem, but I can't.  You were my life.  You were my world.  Getting rid of your letters, the only thing I have left of you, would be like ripping off a chunk of my heart, so therefore, I have to keep them.