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The Letter

I sat down at the bar alone, the way I prefer it. I ordered a Dr Pepper and asked for a menu and looked around. Not so much for someone to talk with but to see the stories going on around me. A man and woman beside me were having a conversation, too loud to be ignored, complaining about their spouses. The body language spoke volumes to me. The lean in, their legs touched beneath the bar. I felt sorry for them. The man's phone rang and he left to talk outside. He returned and their conversation continued in more hushed tones. I was glad it was no longer ear raping me. They sat back and tapped away at their phones.

A young couple entered and sat at a table for two. Obviously a first date. They were in their early twenties but looked much younger to me. They sat and faced each other awkwardly and looked over the menus. The nervous smiles the sweaty hands. She was a very pretty girl and he was handsome and seemed to have it all together for a man in his early twenties these days. He would look at her when she wasn't looking and she would do the same. The conversation seemed sparse and all too mechanical, nervous words of young infatuation. Like a business meeting to schedule couch time. Then, the saddest thing I have ever seen. He pulled out his phone to answer a text. I wanted to grab him by the throat and say look in front of you, you fool, put your damned phone away. This beautiful girl really likes you. Ask her how she feels, ask her what her favorite flower is, find out what her favorite memory is, connect with her damn it. Tell her how good her hair looks, tell her you like her dress, steal her a piece of chocolate from the hostess desk. The girl now peered down at her phone. This went on through the evening as the date progressed. The electronic leash pulled them apart and the mechanical couch scheduling continued.

I was looking through some documents. There was a letter, it said nothing really, It ended, “That’s all I really got to say. Junior says send him a postcard from France.” It took me some time to put the story together. The connection in that modest piece of paper I held. The letter from my grandfather to his nephew was in my Grandfather's possession. You see those words traveled with him across the ocean on his adventure. I am sure he read them as a connection to the world he left behind. He read them over and over, in England, along with other letters. I am sure they came out at night to comfort him that in his travels, home was still home, and the peas and corn and watermelons would come in each fall just as they always had. Junior would be waiting on that postcard. The letter followed him in his pocket as he nervously crossed the channel talking and connecting to people, people he may never see again as they shared their letters with one another. The boats came to rest and the doors flew open towards France, and Paris and beautiful French women and wine. Those men he had connected to on a deeper and more personal level than the young lovers I watched would ever know, they were alive at that moment, right then. The breeches fell open and they set foot into France young and excited about running across the beach with their new friends. They fell down, awkwardly in the surf, face forward, flailing arms and screams of pain and their blood ran into the sea and stained the beach red, like the Georgia clay. Junior never got his postcard.



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"The Letter By Erk Rhett"