I write you this note

I feel it in my bones when things are going well. They stretch easier. The joints have more of a satisfying pop than a groan and a creak and a definitive moan. But sometimes that is the weather. On a day when I am walking about, with my shuffle and my gait that wears down the backs of my shoes, it is a fluid motion of grief-less-ness that accompanies me. I know for a fact that this will be a good day. I can flip my hair and my neck feels without strain. I can open and close my hands, clench a fist, pump it high into the air and I know that nothing will shatter and sag inside my skin. It is one of these days that I decide to wait at your door. You have a nice door. One I would describe as red. It is a wooden red, painted yes, but no cherries or apples or similar flora could describe the color. It is a red that tells me, your bones sound great today. It is a red that does not yell at me if I lean against it while I wait. The handle of the door is pleasant as well. It is brass. It looks like a handle mostly. But I like it. You have a door mat with sparrows on it. They must be woven. They are nice sparrows like your door is a nice red because they do not chirp complaints when I sit on them to wait for you. Your house is white. The paint is chipping in places between the panels, as if a tired sailor had time to worry bits of it away while he waited for you too. Mostly, I like your garden. I would like to sit under that tree over there while I wait for you, but it might offend the sparrows. I think to myself on this happy day of smooth bones and a clear sky and your welcoming place of residence behind me, I think I'll wait a little longer. You have not yet arrived. It is a lucky day on top of everything else. I have brought with me what it is that I wanted to give you. I guess that could be considered not lucky since I bring it with me everywhere I go, but it is certainly not unlucky. The letter has an envelope and it is sealed. It is also very warn on the outside and if I held it up to the sun today I bet I could read what the letter said inside. That is what happens when you carry around something for someone, every single day. I keep it in my closet, so when I dress, or undress, I can slip it back in my pocket. At times, I touch it during the day and this is why it so worn. The touching. The morning ritual does not only include tucking the envelope into my pocket however, I also tuck a photo of you into my heart, (which has a special crease that I sewed there for you). Of course the photo cannot be real. It would not fit into this small of a heart. Therefor, the photo cannot get creases or folds or wear and tear. It is pristine in my mind. In my heart too, of course. On this day that is quickly sliding into evening, I am still sitting on your porch and I think I should just take out the letter and use the practiced motion of tucking to tuck it under the sparrows. Then I could leave, or just go sit under that tree. I decide otherwise though. What would you think of finding me under your tree? There is something on your porch that I like besides the welcome mat and the door and the brass handle. I like that little orange man that is standing next to the bench. There is that white wooden bench on your porch and he is a small decoration next to it. He is a garden gnome I suppose. But, he is furry and looks more like a cartoon character. He is slumped as well, as if a child dropped him. He has matted fur too, as if he were rained on. He smiles though, his eyes are still white. He looks like he may be having an okay bone day. I like the orange guy.

It is as I look away from him that I see the fence at the edge of your garden, the short white fence door, open. You are there, standing to the left of the tree looking at me as I look back at you. My bones are feeling stiff now. That look on your face is not as pleasant as the red door or the sparrows. I stand. You come up the porch steps. I'm creaking. This may have been a bad idea because I can see that you are not having such a good day as I am and that perhaps this moment is good to run, jump over that short white fence you have, and wave goodbye. Maybe I could pat the thick bark of your tree on the way out. But you are here now. You are near and I can hear your breath and hear the crinkle of plastic grocery bags though I have a feeling there are not any food items in there. You are asking me something and your voice is just as nice as I remembered. Just the way it sounded when I was young. I can remember a story you read to me, something silly. Your voice was on the verge of laughter but still quiet. I cannot make out the words you are saying now. You are taller than me, but maybe you are floating. The light is sort of hurting my eyes. I look away and when I look back the tree has moved and is standing on the porch with me, only it has grown through and broken the wood and is breaking through your roof now, I can hear the splintering of the ceiling, or maybe that is the sound of your tree growing. When I look for you you are gone.

Then I wake up. The tree is not near me on the porch, my dream is still loud in my ears. You are still not here. My bones hurt now. It is dark. I rub my eyes and promise not to fall asleep again. I take out a pen from my pocket, open up the envelope, cross out the paragraph that I have carried around in my clothes' pockets for seven months, two days, and six hours. I scribble over the cross-out. I write you this note and I wait for you to come home.