The Stain of Unsaid Names

The enamel rim of the green cup holds water that smells of dust and rain. I find the letter tucked into the damp soil near the trellis, the back garden I half-remember from when I was ten. The cursive on the front is mine, the pressure of the ink faded thin. Someone is waiting for me. I stand by the stone birdbath; the moss growing on the north side is the colour of dried liver. My shoelace feels warm, a specific warmth that suggests a body just stood here. I finally read the message inside. I whisper the name of the person who wrote it. The sound leaves my mouth and does not return; the name dissolves, a smoke that never gathers, and the ink on the page blurs entirely.