for October 18 at the lake.
A gold border, and a little sketch of a pavilion with six posts and a slanted roof.
The small envelope was the one I opened first.
Inside was a single sheet folded in thirds and a second envelope, older, yellowed at the flap.
The older one had Aunt Diane written on it in my mother’s handwriting.
The date in the top corner was March 9, 2003, underlined twice the way Elaine Whitfield underlined every note she ever stuck on a refrigerator.
The sheet on
top was in Megan’s handwriting.
Blue ballpoint, rushed.
“Thomas, read the letter first.
Megan.”
I flipped the sheet over.
The back was blank.
I looked at my watch.
Six twenty.
The statement for my paid-off van loan was still clipped to the fridge under a magnet, thirty-eight thousand four hundred dollars, balance zero.
I had looked at that zero plenty of times.
That night it just sat there.
I worked my thumb under the flap of my mother’s envelope.
The first line was my name.
“Thomas, if you’re reading this,
