Last Year's Letter

He's not sure why he takes the letter out now. Maybe because there's partying down in the street below his window, and because of the lights, the sounds of shouting and laughing, and people just being together. Maybe it's the clock, the one ticking patiently on his wall. Or the onepreparing to strike beneath fireworks and cheering just forty-five minutes from now.

The letter. Crinkled up and a little bit smudged. He'd not quite forgotten. And now he spreads it out and reads it over. Remembering. He didn't date it, but he remembers the date well enough: 31 December 2015. And the next day: 1 January 2016, when he didn't send it.

Or the days after that. Still unsent.

Forty-five minutes left to make a new promise.

But won't he break it? Won't he break it the way he broke the last one? Every day for a week; and then every few weeks, when he next thought about it, and shied away from the thought. Once a month. Three months ago.

Why is he so afraid? Or so stubborn? Or so... something.

Tick, says the clock in answer to that, by way of offering an opinion. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. As the hands creep slowly around the face.

Mum, the letter reads,

I know it's been a while. And I know there's been a lot said between us. And I know there's been a lot more that's not been said between us. But I want you to know some things. Things I should have written – should have said probably – before now.

I mostly want you to know that I understand now. What it must have been like for you. With Dad. I was just a kid when it all went south with the two of you. All I knew was that I was leaving this home I was so happy in, leaving my friends, going away, and my father – who I looked up to so much – wasn't coming with us. I blamed you because you made the decision, you decided to leave him, and even when I begged and yelled and threatened you still wouldn't go back.

I was hellish, I suppose, but I was twelve. I didn't know the full extent of what went on in our house. I saw his good side. I even admired some parts of his bad side. I didn't know what you were going through, what it cost you to do what you did. What it cost you to hear my ignorant accusations.

We were poor for a while. I blamed you too. It didn't occur to me to lay any of that at his feet. When he didn't call, I figured it was you not letting him talk to us. I figured it was you driving him into the orbit of another family, your casting his aside. His new kids with a new X-Box, while we struggled to pay to keep the lights on.

And I guess you know I blamed you for Susie as well. I only thought about how much I missed my sister. Never mind how you missed your daughter. I know she was troubled. And I know she went away for her own reasons, that she needed to straighten out. She's doing better you know. If she doesn't write to you, then I guess I should say it: she keeps in touch. She tells me she's sober most of the time, that she's got a place, she has a job - part time, but still, something.

I've figured this out too: we all make our own decisions. How we handle a broken home. What we do with that mess. You didn't send her along that road. She made a choice of her own.

The years remind you, don't they? How much time has gone by? I guess that's why I'm doing this now. Because it has been too long, and because I want you to understand that I haven't stopped loving you, or stopped having a mum. I don't suppose Susie has either.

Happy New Year's Mum.

And I'll call you, soon, sometime.

Still you son, always:

Murray.

And that was one year ago, almost to the minute. He remembers sitting at this table, writing the words, putting the pen down and reading over them, losing courage as he read. He can hear when the big clock starts chiming out another year. He sees the windows light up red with burst of fireworks. Strings of song reach him...”old acquaintance...” “...never brought...” “A cup of kindness...”

One act of kindness. He could still put this letter in an envelope, he could still send it, could stick a stamp on it and walk to the corner and put it in the postbox. That's how simple it'd be. And his heartbeat hurries.

He could...

But then...

He puts it back down again. He reaches over to the drawer.

Maybe... Maybe next year.