Part 6 – Letters Never Mailed
It rained again the next morning.
Not a storm. Not a downpour.
Just a slow, steady drizzle that painted the sidewalks dark and made the town smell like wet leaves and soil.
Eli sat by the window with a mug of reheated coffee, flipping through a shoebox he found in the hallway closet.
Inside were letters. Dozens. Some sealed. Some not.
Most were addressed to him. All had never been mailed.
Some were just a line or two.
“You were quiet on the phone. I didn’t know if I should ask.”
“It’s okay if you don’t come for Thanksgiving. Just knowing you’re okay is enough.”
“Scout still checks your room at night.”
Others were longer.
Pages of wondering, missing, remembering.
There was one, dated five years back, that began:
“I dreamt last night you were eight again. Running beside me while Scout barked at the wind.”
Eli held that one in his hands for a long time.
By noon, he drove back to County General.
His father had been moved to a quieter room — second floor, corner window.
The view was of a stand of maple trees, still holding onto their last red leaves.
“Brought you something,” Eli said, setting the shoebox on the bedside tray.
Franklin raised an eyebrow. “You digging through closets now?”
“Only the ones marked ‘Do Not Touch.’”
Frank gave a weak smile. “That box was supposed to be burned, you know.”
Eli opened the lid. “Good thing I didn’t ask.”
His father reached in, pulled out a letter, and turned it over in his hands.
“I wrote most of those late,” he said. “Didn’t know what I’d say if I mailed them… or what you’d say back.”
“I probably wouldn’t have said anything,” Eli admitted. “Not then.”
Frank didn’t respond. Just nodded.
They sat in silence while the heart monitor beeped slow and steady.
Then Eli said, “Some of these were beautiful.”
“They were just pages,” Frank replied. “Never had the nerve to send ‘em.”
“Well,” Eli said, “they got where they needed to, eventually.”
That evening, Eli stopped by Mapleton Grocery.
He hadn’t been inside in years.
The cashier, a woman in her sixties with silver curls, smiled as he approached the register.
“You’re Frank Thomas’s boy, aren’t you?”
“Guilty.”
“He used to leave his mailbag by the door and help Mr. Halley stock milk when he had a bad back.”
Eli nodded. “Sounds like him.”
She pointed at the scarf around his neck. “That Scout’s?”
He looked down. It was Scout’s bandana. Faded red.
He’d tied it there that morning without thinking.
“Yeah,” he said. “Found it in a drawer.”
She smiled. “That dog knew every customer better than we did.”
Back at the house, the heating kicked in with a groan.
It barely warmed the hallway, but Eli left it on.
He figured it was time to stop putting off what needed doing.
That night, he sat at the kitchen table and opened his laptop.
Search: heating repair assistance ohio for seniors
He clicked through a few local programs.
Most required paperwork. Proof of income. Application wait times.
One site offered an emergency fund, but the form had expired.
He bookmarked three pages anyway.
Then opened a spreadsheet and started listing expenses.
Roof estimate from Harold: $3,800
Hospital bills: unknown
Prescriptions: $240/month
Heating: unreliable
Insurance: none
Savings: $600 cash in the tin
Not much to build on.
But now he knew.
The next morning, he called the hospital billing office.
“Yes, I’m his son,” he said. “I’d like to go over his statement and options moving forward.”
The woman was kind.
Walked him through everything.
After a while, Eli set the phone down and rubbed his temples.
His father had deferred charges for months. Skipped refills. Chose generic when he needed name-brand. Declined cardiac rehab.
All to avoid being a burden.
Eli stared out the window at the mailboxes lining the opposite curb.
His dad had delivered to each one faithfully.
Now, Eli thought, it was his turn to carry something.
That afternoon, he picked up Penny from the backyard and walked Route 6 again.
This time, the leash felt different in his hand.
Lighter, maybe. Or heavier in a better way.
He stopped at the corner near Jasper Street.
There, on a bench, sat an elderly man in a thick coat.
A cane rested against his knee.
“Used to see your dad come through here,” the man said without prompting. “Rain, snow, didn’t matter.”
Eli nodded.
The man squinted. “You the college boy?”
“Was,” Eli said. “Still figuring it out.”
“Your old man carried himself quiet, but he saw everything,” the man continued.
“He helped my wife file her Medicare paperwork. She never told me till after he passed by the last time.”
Eli blinked.
“He said, ‘It’s not about mail. It’s about showing up when no one else will.’”
The man stood slowly, using his cane.
“You look like him, you know.”
“I hope so,” Eli said quietly.
That night, Penny curled at his feet as Eli sat by the fire — a space heater, really, but the flicker of the flame decal felt close enough.
He took one of his father’s blank letter pages and began to write.
Not a message to anyone.
Just a memory.
We were walking in snow. Scout was ahead.
Dad let me carry the satchel, even though it was heavy.
He said, ‘Sometimes you carry things just because they need to get where they’re going.’
I didn’t understand then.
I do now.
He folded the page, slipped it into the envelope marked “For Later.”
And set it beside the collar on the mantle.