The One I Never Mailed

Dear my friend,

I know you are not angry with me because I did not attend your marriage. Robert and Joseph told me you looked great in your bridal wear, and your husband is prone to blushing once too often. Good for you; like I used to say, a ‘husband who blushes, fulfills one’s wishes.”

Yeah, my poetry is still bad. My agent is yet to call me. The last time he called, he left a message in my answering machine, about a deal he was sure to close within a day or two. It’s been a month, and the only thing that’s closed is the library down the street. The old man died. Henry, remember him?

He died of heart attack. It was two days before his body was dragged out of the pile of books. The old man must have wanted to dust the top shelf… pulled down the whole load on him as he fell.

The last time he spoke to me, he asked about you. “You and Liz are my oldest customers,” he said, “and the youngest,” he added, smiling. “But I am very angry with Liz, tell her that; she did not send me an invitation.”

I did not think that saying I too had not been invited, would serve to comfort him any. So, I smiled, putting the blame on the postal system. The old man had a wheezy, raspy cough then, but he seemed alright otherwise. Anyway, Henry’s gone now.

So, how’s married life? I realize it must be hardly a week after your wedding when you receive this letter, but isn’t that the most exciting period? Write me about it.

Henry is dead.

What does that mean, Liz? Death, I mean.

You were always the smarter of us two. I’m sure you have an answer to that. Write me.

Your husband seems to be a good man, Liz. Wish you a great married life.

Then, what else?

Henry asked about you. Oh, I already told you that.

So, how’s life?

Hope you have a great honeymoon. Is it the Alps, like you always wanted, or did the man in your life bring with him his own honeymoon dreams? Wonder if his friends knew about his dream place.

You should write me, Liz, about how it went. Also, the weather here’s quite-

I apologise, in fear of death, for every single word I told you three years ago.

Yours,

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