A Letter that Will Never Send

Agnes,

    I laid out all the lavender you owned. It's on the bed in the guest room if you ever decide to come back. I say "owned" because you seem to be disowning everything these days. I even found the gold earrings that I gave you last May in my soap dish. Perhaps it was on purpose. I am going to pretend you are not doing these things out of spite.
   Sometimes, I chuckle at your immaturity. I blame it on the fact that I can now see your blue veins peeking through your silky, purple hands. I guess you have to overcompensate with something. You have to make your point; and you do--in your quiet ways. Instead of saying what you mean, you leave little reminders of yourself all around my house.
   Agnes, I'm tired of the chasing. I haven't said anything to you because I can't say the right thing. I think you like bounding away from my welcome mat. You leave the front door (as opposed to the garage door), so I can watch the anger storm inside your dizzy head all the way out to the driveway. It doesn't go unnoticed, Agnes, it doesn't. But it also isn't helping. I don't know what I want to say and when I try to add in empty dialogue, you become frustrated. Do you want me to throw my hands up? Do you want me to abandon ship?

 Agnes, we've been through this;
 We've been through this, Agnes.

   This is me letting you go.
   My legs become dust beneath me, and I'm sure eventually you'll start to notice potatoes sprouting out of my organs. That is, if you ever come back.
   And if you don't Agnes, if you're still avoiding the incessant chirping of Mam's old, buttermilk, rotary dial phone--then I guess that's that. It's settled. I'll turn into rot; rodants, and odd birds will feed upon me.
   Maybe that's me playing the victim. But Agnes, I learned it from you.
   And I'm not going to stamp this message. I'm just going to assume that if you're meant to have it, it'll find you.
   As for me, Agnes,
   I'm not going to look for you anymore.

   Your hair disappeared up into the stratosphere today--like smoke.
   Agnes,
   I'm no pilot, and I'm no red balloon.

   I'm rooted-exactly where I am. And you used to call me "home," Agnes. And you were home to me too.
                                                                                         Rue