When I got home, I knew exactly what
to do though. I climb to the top of my cupboard and searched for that box of
unposted letters I tucked in the back shelf for days like these. And I begin
writing another letter to my Atticus.
It started just like all the others:
You see, as a child, I promised to
wait for my future husband, and that sounds like a pretty easy gig at 12 before
puberty and reality hit the scene. I had always written letters to him even not
knowing who or what his name is up till this day. I’d write when I felt lonely,
or when waiting was especially difficult, or even when I felt like I’ve been
hurt or accidentally hurt someone. I’d write to him and tell him about my
frustration, or my broken hearts or the ways I want him to be real to comfort
me.
I love writing to him, it somehow
lightened the burden. It made the waiting seem more doable and the hope I had
been holding out for more tangible. Because I need a little fantasy, true story
to remind my heart to believe that love is still possible. But I'm sorry I can't go further, especially when I still got a story I yet to close and apologize.