Jerry had been a man of many correspondences. Letters came, months after his death, names she hadn’t even thought to notify. To Jerry, Dearest Jerry, Hello my Jerry. Blue ballpoint friendships; she felt like an intruder.
She hardly cried anymore. Imagine, after forty-seven years! Now, as she looked out at the mailbox, buttercup ten o’clock sun streaming through the window, she felt that perhaps Jerry was just out for a walk.
She dried her hands on her apron and wrote:
Dear Mrs. Henley,
This is Jerry’s wife, Eleanor. I received your letter to him and must reply with sad news….