You became a mystery to me after you died, and now I have questions I’ll never be able to ask. But your stubbornness was inexplicable to me until I talked it around and found that you were ill, or probably ill. All the things that didn’t make sense to me had an explanation, and I softened for you. I started to see you not as an enemy but as a treatable condition. But your condition, they say, is the most difficult to treat. As stubborn as you were I don’t think it would have helped. I’m going through the porches and the dashboards looking for envelopes and looking for evidence that you left behind… those things you promised but I never found. The love letters are still there in the box that nobody but me has ever seen the inside of. Everything is in that box. The sandman is there. The blisters are there. The snowman, too. You should be listening for it now.
