Still staying with the same hand: there, focused now on the middle finger, the finger with the indented callus between the first knuckle and the nail, from holding a pen with such a grasp for so very long. This finger and this callus are my memory of you, of all the letters I wrote to you across so many years and so many miles. This finger bears the memory of an address scripted onto envelopes and packages, of return addresses that varied with the season, of news and stories and announcements that once seemed so very pressing but now all of which I can no longer recall. You must remember, you who have carefully read and saved each line of each letter, finding so much value in what I did for a host of confused reasons, of guilt, and obligation, and pity, and, somewhere deep and only tacitly acknowledged, abiding attachment and fond affection. week after week, postcards, letters, clippings, scrawled with what can generously be called the best of intentions, and now that you are no longer here, I can admit to love.
there are books; they aren't open