Dear Jane

Dear Jane,

I don’t have anything to write. It’s just been so long since I wrote anything that I thought I’d give it a shot. How are things there in Cleveland? Hope the kids are doing well. Bobby must be, what, 13 now? They grow up so fast, mine too. My youngest--youngest!--is 11 now. I remember thinking, back when Sara was 11, that we’d always have baby Max. Eating my words now. Not that I didn’t know time passed but you just don’t realize.

Work is fine. The factory has slowed production on its primary widget in light of the Boeing scandal, and we’re refitting it to produce something else. I think it’s a clamp to keep mufflers on the new Seabrings from rattling but don’t hold me to that. They’ve kept it pretty quiet, exactly what the long term plans are, and I know you don’t really want to hear about that anyway. Since they gutted OSHA I have less to do. Half the employees are on leave or fired so at least half of them are safe and alive. The ones still here, well, they just need to produce.

I know you didn’t want that to be the longest paragraph in this letter. Me either.

The thing about time is that the less you do the less you have. “The years go fast but the days go so slow”. The kids roll their eyes at me when I quote song lyrics or poetry. I hardly get out “ever to admit” these days before they groan “lack of inner resources” and they don’t chuckle when I say I am heavy bored. They never remember who wrote it though, or what bridge he jumped off of. I hope I can visit Minneapolis someday. Maybe we can get together, bring the families, eat some lutefisk.

I don’t mean to avoid the big thing; some things are so big. But I hope you’re recovering. We all loved Alan. We all wanted more time. Not that I need to tell you. And I’m sorry it’s taken so long to say something. I don’t remember if we talked at the funeral. I remember a handshake, tears, alcohol at the repast. I remember there was a fist-fight outside; no one from the funeral party, I don’t think. A friend of a friend? Helen broke it up. Her voice, soft at first, then louder. Did she slap someone? By the time you answer this, if you do, maybe I’ll have remembered. There was a drop of blood on the sidewalk and I wondered whose it was.

How does one write a letter that isn’t all about one’s self? And how can anyone bear to read it?

Love,

Stephen