by Don Rath

1.

Dear Mrs. Markam,

I saw you at Jack’s funeral today and couldn’t look you in the eye when I said I’m so sorry for your loss which I must have rehearsed a hundred times. But I am so sorry for your loss and even sorrier than you could ever know. I looked at Jack’s face in the picture next to the casket and almost laughed in church. Because he never ever smiled that way, or maybe he did for you. Did you know we called him Hungry Jack because he bragged about eating twenty pancakes every Saturday morning? Even though we all knew he was lying, we always laughed like we believed him.

I thought you’d like to know that about him because it may help you sleep better tonight.

Your son’s friend.

2.

Dear Mrs. Markam,

I saw the tribute to Jack in The Register this morning and thought I’d try to write you again. It’s hard to believe it’s been a year since he died. Maybe I should say “passed” like the tribute did, but we both know he didn’t “pass” like a summer thunderstorm does when the wind dies down and the sun peaks over the clouds. He died because he lost control of his bike and wasn’t wearing his helmet like I’m sure you told him to, so his skull split open like that can of baked beans I left too long on the fire that summer Jack and I were at Boy Scout camp. I wanted to say I was sorry he died that way. I remember that clump of blond hair sticking up from the puddle of blood on the black pavement after they took him away and before the street cleaners came. I am sorry I have to remember him that way.

Your son’s friend.

3.

Dear Mrs. Markam,

Today I graduated from high school and realized Jack would have too if he’d lived. I wonder if we still would be friends, if he’d lived. I heard them call a boy named Amos Markus to receive his diploma and realized Jack would have been right before him, if he’d lived. I had this odd thought that the red mortarboard would have covered his head, and no one could see the damage from the accident, if he’d lived. And it would have been the happiest day of his life.

If he’d lived.

I’m pretty sure the smile in his senior photo would have been real this time.

Your son’s friend.

4.

Dear Mrs. Markam,

Today I watched my seven-year-old son learning how to ride a bicycle. His hands grasped the handlebars as he tried to steady himself. He learned what we’ve all had to learn. If you ride too slow, you may not have enough momentum and fall over. If you pedal too fast, you may lose control and fall over. It is every little boy’s first hard lesson. There are no easy choices.

Today my son pedaled too slowly and fell over. Today my son pedaled too fast and fell over. Each time I thought of Jack. How he sailed over his handlebars like a bird in flight, his body smashing against the hard pavement.

I felt so sorry for him. And I feel so sorry for you.

Your son’s friend.

5.

Dear Mrs. Markham,

I realized two things today.

It’s been thirty years since Jack was buried. I keep his funeral card in a box with my pocket knife and Pez dispenser, things from my childhood I can’t seem to throw away.

I have also misspelled your name for thirty years. I never remember there’s an H after the K. Though since I’ve never sent any of my other letters (they’re sitting in my box under the pocket knife), you’ve never known that.

I wanted to say I was sorry for both things.

Your son’s friend.

6.

Dear Mrs. Markham,

Last month my wife died. Like Jack, she did not “pass.” The cancer finally got the better of her. I have not left the house since the day after her funeral. I sit here and think about how unfair it is to lose people. I regret every unkind thing I ever said to her and every terrible thing I ever did to her.

Just like I did when a boy I once knew died. The day it happened, I called him a faggot, and the day it happened, I saw a rock on the ground next to the curb, and when no one was looking, I picked it up. I can still see the tan and white veins on the rock’s smooth surface and its cool wetness against my fingertips. I can still see my fingertips flash before my eyes as I threw it as hard as I could. I can still hear the soft pop when it hit his shoulder, just enough to startle him and make him lose his balance and forget that when you ride into a groove in the pavement, you keep going and don’t try to steer out of it. I can still picture him sailing through the air like a bird in flight and how his body bounced as his skull hit the pavement.

And I don’t know if I’ll ever send this letter, but I want to say I’m sorry because now I know what it feels like to have someone you love die.

Not pass.

Die.

Your son’s friend,

Glenn Bishop

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