Letter to Sandi VIII: One sees a stranger at a newsstand who moves like Sandi. Three seconds of forgetting before she turns and it isn't her.
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