Letters from the Subway

Dear Mom,

Thank you for the subway rides. You taught me that subways go uptown and downtown, that staring is rude, that giving up your seat for pregnant women or the elderly is the right thing to do, Dad always needs to be told what stop to get off on, that reading is a good pastime, people watching is an even better pastime.

Dear Evan,

Thank you for the subway rides. A hug on the subway goes a long way. You taught me that. Your father says hello.

Dear Claire,

I spoke to Mom—she says hello. Dad too. How’s London? Talk soon.

Dear Mom,

Claire says hello. I went to the park today. I saw a dog that looked just like Koa. He had white, short legs and his latte-colored body was chunky and soft. His bark was mighty despite his size. Maybe it was Koa. He had a red frisbee.

Dear Evan,

Please stop sending me letters. I can’t do this anymore.

Dear Evan,

Koa always had a red ball—not a frisbee. Your father says anyone who took in Koa would’ve given him up by now. How was the park? I’m sure the leaves have started to turn colors. Is it cold out yet? Or is the summer still squeezing out its last days of warmth? It’s always cold here. Even on hot summer days—without a cloud in sight—I imagine. Did you get a hot chocolate like usual? In a big round mug?

Dear Claire,

Do you give your daughter high fives on the subway when she finishes a book? Do you tell her you love her? I hope she doesn’t want to forget you when she’s older.

Dear Mom,

Most trees are still green; except the one by our rock in the park. There are clusters of color hiding under the green. There’s one singular yellow leaf out in front. Nothing shields it from view. It looks content. Though I’m sure it’s lonely. I see your face sketched with veins within. It’s cold here too—summer is long forgotten. Clouds paint the skies; long coats have joined the latest fashion trends once more. I drink coffee now. In a round mug.

Dear Mom, I haven’t heard back from you. I hope you’re still feeling cold. I hope you’re still thinking about the colors of the trees.

Dear Claire,

You can forget now.

Dear Mom,

All the leaves are different colors now. I hope you’re with Dad. Claire used to say if someday you met Dad again he’d turn you away. I never thought that. If it would’ve been the other way around, you would forgive him. I won’t wonder if Dad made it to Heaven like Claire swore he would. Or if your prayers saved you from Hell—despite how you deserved it. I only wonder what your last meal was. Today, I’ll take the subway and avoid the paper.

Love,

Evan