It is not the new path this time but the matching driveway fresh concrete paved over decade old memories And those damn numbers crooked wooden burgundy reminders of where you began and wouldn’t end They aren’t there anymore hanging from the peeling blue siding 234 is scrawled in white paint on a black box atop a wooden post. I’m sure it holds letters for the new owners but never any from me to you I never wrote you letters because we never had to you were always there and I here all those years ago. But I’m still here— There is a fresh coat of paint in all nine rooms a new patio set that is no longer sage green and I’ve got two more years of finding myself in this big world. So, I decided to fill you in on me instead of waiting for you to inquire I couldn’t ask you to return home to a foreign place until you’re ready because I wouldn’t do the same if it was me. This is my better-late-than-never letter I hope you’ll...
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