I Finally Opened the Mailbox

For eighty-three days, I walked past it.

The mailbox stood at the end of the gravel drive, crooked on its post like it, too, was tired of waiting. Each morning I told myself, Today, and each afternoon I said, Tomorrow. And when the moon rose and painted the yard in silver hush, I told myself I’d go first thing in the morning.

But I never did.

You might think it’s silly—to fear a mailbox. But grief makes cowards of all of us in strange ways. For me, it came in envelopes. In return addresses I couldn’t bear to read. In the clink of the metal door when it shut too hard.

That sound was the last thing I remember from the day after the funeral.

The mailman had come. I heard him. Heard the engine hum away. And then the sound—the small metallic slap that echoed through my ribs like a gunshot.

I didn’t open it.

I haven’t opened it since.

My sister called last week. “You’re not avoiding life, are you?” she asked.

I laughed, but I didn’t answer.

What could I say?

That I slept on the couch because the bed was too wide now?

That I kept one side of the closet shut so the smell wouldn’t fade?

That I hadn’t thrown away her half-finished crossword puzzle because she might come back and finish it?

That I couldn't bear the idea of some letter—official and clean and indifferent—confirming the things I still tried to un-believe?

This morning was different.

The kettle whistled, but I didn’t move. The sunlight painted gold across the floor, and I saw dust dance in it like tiny ghosts. The stillness felt heavier than usual.

And then I looked at the mailbox.

It stood, slanted and stubborn, surrounded by dry weeds.

I told myself, If I don't do it today, I never will.

So I put on her coat—the blue one she always said made her feel brave—and walked outside.

The gravel crunched under my slippers. The wind tugged gently at my sleeves. The air smelled like damp leaves and unspoken things.

My hands trembled when I reached for the latch.

The door creaked open.

Inside: a stack of envelopes.

No monsters. No thunder. No letters laced with heartbreak. Just paper.

I carried them inside, one hand gripping too tightly, the other curled like it was holding hers.

The first few were nothing. Junk. Coupons. An ad for a roofing company.

Then came the sympathy cards—yellowing at the edges now. Dozens of them, unopened, all dated weeks ago. I read each one slowly. Some handwritten, some typed. All of them kind. All of them too late.

And then, buried between a utility bill and a bank statement, a small square envelope addressed in delicate blue ink.

I knew the handwriting before I read the name.

It was from Claire.

Claire had been her best friend since grade school. The kind of friend who showed up with tea when words were useless. The kind who’d cry with you, not for you.

We’d lost touch after the funeral. Maybe we’d both retreated into our own shadows.

The note was short. No apology for the delay. No hollow condolences. Just:

I know you haven’t opened the mailbox.

But I hope you do.

Because there’s one more letter I wanted her to have.

And I think you should read it.

—C.

Tucked behind that card was another envelope.

No stamp. No address.

Just one word:

For You.

The handwriting was hers.

I opened it with both hands, afraid that if I blinked, it would vanish.

Inside was a single page. Folded neatly. Written in her neat, curling letters that I used to tease her for—“like an English professor from the 1800s,” I’d joke.

It read:

If you’re reading this, then I didn’t make it past the storm.

And you’re probably still mad I wouldn’t go to the hospital sooner. I know. I was scared.

But mostly I was scared of leaving you.

So I wrote this the night before I told you something was wrong.

Because I knew you.

I knew you wouldn’t let go easily.

And I didn’t want to be let go.

Not entirely.

So here’s what I want to say:

I love you. Not past tense. That doesn’t change.

I love how you hum while you water the plants. I love how you cry at commercials. I love that you always burn the toast because you forget it’s in the oven.

I love you.

And I know you’re going to want to freeze time now. To pause your life in the frame where I still existed.

But please, don’t.

Open the windows.

Eat the chocolate.

Burn the toast.

Let life reach you again.

And when it does—when you feel it crack your chest open—don’t run. That’s not pain. That’s me.

Reminding you:

You’re still here.

And you still get to live.

Love,

M.

I don’t remember when I started crying. Only that when I finished the letter, I was on the floor, clutching it to my chest like a lifeline.

Outside, the wind rustled through the leaves. The mailbox door, still open, tapped gently in the breeze.

Tap.

Tap.

Like a heart that wouldn’t stop.

I finally closed it.

Not to shut her out.

But to say:

I’m ready now.

Ready to open more than a mailbox.

Ready to open the door.

To her memory.

To my life.

To whatever comes next.