Friendship
The Last Letter
The Empty Mailbox Every day at 3:00 PM, Mrs. Eleanor Whitlock walked to her mailbox. Rain or shine, winter or summer, she made the same slow journey down her creaky porch steps, her arthritic fingers gripping the railing for support. For fifty-three years, she had done this—ever since her husband, Thomas, had been deployed to Vietnam. Back then, letters were her lifeline. Thomas wrote to her every week without fail, his messy handwriting filling pages with stories about his fellow soldiers, the unbearable heat, and how much he missed her apple pie. However, the most recent letter she received from him arrived on a Tuesday. "If you’re reading this, my love, I didn’t make it home." The military confirmed his death two weeks later.
By Silas Blackwood8 months ago in Poets
Words I Never Said Out Loud
The morning light slipped through the blinds of Amara’s Brooklyn apartment, casting thin stripes across her hardwood floor. She sat cross-legged on a faded rug, a notebook open in her lap, her pen heavy with ink and hesitation. At 27, Amara was a social worker by day, a poet by night—or she had been, before the weight of her unspoken truths silenced her words. Today, though, the dawn felt like a quiet invitation, a chance to write the letter she’d never dared, to the parts of herself she’d kept hidden for too long.
By Shohel Rana8 months ago in Poets
