by Herron Hutchins

We had lived behind Walter’s eyes for seventy-seven years now. At 6:53am on October 14th we lifted the drapes of his wrinkled lids and made him blink four times before focusing on his white brick wall. We began waking his thoughts and rattling his muscles as we settled in for our life’s work of being Walter’s conscience. The task of weighing morality and recovering from poor decision-making used to be exciting. But with age, Walter’s mind wandered less and reflected more on memories we had seen, like Sunday morning reruns. Lately he was falling asleep in his worn leather chair earlier, so the subconscious night shift allowed us to take more time off. But on this morning, we woke with the intent of reminding Walter of his worth.
     A warm cup of milk, a Cuban cigar, and a box of old letters was how he spent this seventy-seventh birthday. The papers rustled between his calloused fingers as he searched the tin for all letters signed Wendy. Wendy’s black-ink-cursive had faded but we could hear her southern drawl as Walter read the letters written over a span of forty-six years. He rarely allowed himself to cry. Walter learned at a young age that sadness was a waste of emotion, so he held his head high. He had mastered the art of suppression and was consumed by a stoic nature. But on October 14th we knew to gather our rain gear so we could dance freely while catching each salty tear in a jar. We stored this morning’s sadness on a shelf next to his other genuine expressions of emotion.
     Wendy was a consistent woman. Each morning she wrote letters of admiration, tragedy, and desires to Walter. She sealed each letter with a kiss, then slipped into her mud-caked boots, and walked towards the coop. She had moved from Mississippi to run her father’s farm in Southern Vermont and supplied eggs and milk for the small town of Norwich. At 3:30pm, she walked to the red school house and taught piano. Her students sat attentively watching her elegant fingers dance between the white and black keys while her foot pumped on the brass pedals. Each student practiced running their fingers up and down the board pretending they were Beethoven’s next prodigy. At 4:30pm she walked to the post office before its five o’clock closing. She slipped her words to Walter in the mail slot and anxiously awaited for an envelope in return. This isn’t to say her only purpose was waiting on Walter’s slow responses, but it inevitably became an expected part of her well-structured days.
     Each birthday Walter saved Wendy’s farewell letter to read after he had a slice of toast spread with butter and jam. His huge exhale shook us out of our rain gear and we settled behind his hazel eyes ready to feel a rising heartbeat.
Wendy’s body ached; her fever ran high and her vision began to blur. The last letter to Walter expressed both a concern and an acceptance that her last breaths were near. She spoke of how he swept her off her feet, how she laughed that he begged her father for a chance at happiness, and thanked him for each letter he sent. They served as her tangible proof of the miles of land their love had traveled.
     We prepared for the empty echo of Walter’s regret. This emotion ran so deeply behind his eyes that we sat in silence and allowed his mind to numb the pain. Walter had never written back to Wendy’s farewell because sadness felt like a wasted emotion and goodbye meant forever. But today, since we intended to remind Walter of his worth, when he lifted his chin in one last stoic effort, we began to gather the jars of emotion off the shelf. We shattered each jar and sent the shock of feeling everything at once towards Walter.
     He placed his face in his palms and ran his fingers over each wrinkle. Tears pooled into his calloused hands and he allowed a lifetime of love to take over. To love and to have lost was better than not to have loved at all. Walter gathered the letters in his tin and walked towards the creaking cedar door.
     The river ran wildly in October and he sat on the bank of this untamable body. He watched the water navigate around each rock and branch attempting to obstruct its path. Walter longed to be water. To be at peace with life’s challenges and to float on regardless of the ever-changing current. He released each letter from Wendy one by one and watched the black ink escape the pages and become one with the rapids, saving Wendy’s farewell letter for last. His body began to shake with uncontrollable laughter. Salty tears ran down his wind-chapped cheeks, joy danced wildly in his stomach, and pain pressed forcefully against his forehead. He kissed the crumpled letter and said farewell to Wendy and regret.

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