Hello P—

Failed, yet again, at something. We now have, by the way, a word for failing many things at once: multitasking. Then there's that lovely old-school consolation that goes on about failure being such a great teacher. Yes, well, she won't be getting any awards from me.

Always hated sounding ugly around you. Would never have thought to talk with you this way. I don't know, perhaps given time? Or had I given that which (I believe) you asked, taken that which you offered?

I am thinking now, again, about your son. I have seen your family, I know they've got everything covered. I imagine your friends paying him a visit, perhaps taking him out to lunch and games.

A mutual friend came by some months ago. He got himself a permanent address abroad. I remember the last conversation we two had about him, about that whole season of the weird. I'm not sure if you still called him friend after that. You know, in that general sense we have of that word: if I call, a friend would come. I suppose you still did. I suppose you were, at the end, as generous as I found you at the beginning.

You called, and I did not come.

You were miserable, at that bend, I know you were. I don't know why I know this, but I know this. Never really saw you happy. Yes, I have heard you laugh enough times to remember now, despite the years. Saw you up and about, flattered, excited to meet this friend or that, but no, never cheerful. An empty word, if there ever was one. Unhappy you. As if your whole life was spent with a part of you already knowing what would happen.

Please don't come to me in dreams telling me you were happy. I was hoping your son would have changed you, but that's too much to ask of anybody, much less a child. Was it possible he meant everything to you?

September has passed. With you it's always either September or the first week of May. And only today, these past few hours, have I stopped forgetting the petals of  February.