I think that going backwards would be the wrong direction
Dear Trevor,
I remember that trailer. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
I loved Popular Mechanics. I suppose I was a cheapskate, but I also loved the idea of making something myself from scratch. It was this feeling of process. Of starting with nothing but a sheet of instructions and a materials list. Of going to the hardware store and coming home with a stack of lumber, boxes of screws, and a new cordless drill. Of filling the basement with sawdust. Of dripping wood glue on the floor. Of stretching out a sore back and rubbing callused hands.
You and I, Trevor, we come from blue collar stock. Your grandpa worked in a gravel quarry and his father was a coal miner, both in Wales and here in the states. When I sat in my desk at the real estate office or drove around showing houses, a big part of me wished I was making something with my hands, instead of just transacting sales for other people. Right now, as I sit here on my porch in this half land, I miss the sawdust and the screws so much more than I miss the printing and signing of stacks of papers.
Today, when I picked up your letter from the post office, the postman actually spoke to me. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard his voice. He said, “What on earth could you have to talk about that requires this much mail?”
I laughed out loud at the way he phrased it—“what on earth?” I don’t think my laughter helped our relationship much, as he just frowned at me again, so I made a quick apology and said I hoped the letters weren’t too much of an inconvenience. He shrugged and turned his back, to do what I have no idea, as his tiny post office is completely bare. The little shack has a wall of post office boxes, but I’ve never seen one in use other than mine. There are no wanted posters on the wall, no papers on his counter, no mail in the little cubbies behind him. Nothing but a postman on a stool, waiting. I think mine is the only business he gets and would think he’d love the distraction, if nothing else.
If I was him, I’d probably steam open our letters and read them, out of sheer boredom.
Perhaps he’s jealous. He probably longs for his old life on earth as much as I do. Or, is long the right word? I’m not sure I want to go back to living down with you, as much as I miss you all. I think that going backwards would be the wrong direction to move. But there should be something more than what I have now.
I don’t understand why I alone should be getting letters. It feels like such a luxury in this place. Why me? Why don’t the others here have kids that reach out as you do? I’ve certainly done nothing to deserve your attention, as I barely even got to know you before I left. I deserve punishment more than pleasure, after what I’ve done. Maybe your letters are meant to remind me of my shame. As if I’ve ever needed a reminder.
Dad
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