Letter to Nobody in Particular

Dear Nobody in Particular, 

I hope this letter finds you well.

I feel the need to let go of a few things, and have decided to use you as my sounding board.

Let’s begin.

I am presently looking out one of my bay windows.  This particular window has strips of masking tape applied to it.  Recently, some crossbill birds discovered my feeder.  Crossbills are—for lack of a better word—dolts.  Several of them have struck my window in the last week.

So: tape.

I have not yet developed a taste for opera.  I now accept that sugar is poison.  For several weeks I developed a habit of making my bed as soon as my feet hit the floor, but I have since lapsed back into less stringent habits.  I am saddened by how often I find familiar names in the obituaries.  Mule deer are welcome to eat my flowers.  I cannot give up bacon.   Americana music: Yep.  Sliced cantaloupe melons: Nope.

Last night, in the deepest hours, I woke to find my wife closing the bedroom windows as strong winds battered the blinds back and forth.  I sat up in my bed.  “Do I need to help you?” I asked.

I woke to gusts of wind grasping and rattling my blinds through the open windows.  I was alone.  I didn’t sit up.  I didn’t speak.

My wife has been gone for nine years.

I am pleased to find her still alive in dreams.  She deserves that.

Thanks for listening.

—Mitchell Hegman