Love Series — Letter to Sandi VIII: The Newsstand

Love Series – Letter to Sandi VIII: The Newsstand

Sandi,

I saw a woman at the newsstand this morning who moved like you.

Same tilt of the head when reading headlines.

Same way of holding her coffee — two hands, like it might escape.

For three seconds, I forgot where I was.

Forgot the gray in my beard, the limp I pretend isn't permanent,

the fact that you and I haven't stood in the same room in years.

Then she turned, and she wasn't you.

Just someone else trying to make sense of the news before work.

I bought a paper I won't read and walked home slowly.

I don't know why I'm telling you this.

Maybe because I'm tired of pretending the world

is the only thing I think about.

Maybe because I want you to know that even now,

even with all the noise and all the distance,

you still show up in the smallest, most ordinary moments

and break my heart a little.

Not dramatically.

Just quietly.

The way dust catches light.

I hope you're sleeping better than I am.

I hope someone is kind to you on the days the cameras aren't watching.

I hope you still drink your coffee with both hands.

If we never speak again,

know this:

You were not a distraction from the work.

You were the reason I believed the work mattered.

— One