He hands her the envelope, and she opens it - her still thin, still painted dark, now maternal fingers are familiar to him. She unfolds it and reads it.
At the end, where she had stopped writing, Gene started:
Em, I hope you won’t read this note again. If you do, it means that I’m not around to tell you this myself, but I still want you to know. I love you. I always did, even when I left. And I’m sorry.
- G
"Oh, Paulie..."
As she hands him the note, her eyes fill with tears that don’t fall. These are old tears, saved and nurtured for years, and she is too protective to let them fall into her lap.
"...you should read that. Not now, sometime - when I’m not here."
She smiles, it’s fake. And the tears finally stream down her cheeks, to her chin, down her neck. It’s a warm Saturday afternoon - late summer, early fall.
Paul leans forward, his elbows on his knees, and holds the letter between them, looking at the porch floor.
- Do you miss him, Em?
- Of course, I do. But he’s not here.
- No, he’s not.
- And we are.
Yep.
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