I found his handwriting today. In my checkbook.
That’s all it takes.
I can picture the pen in his hand, the intentionally careless scrawl across the page.
It snuck up on me, like a whiff of his cologne. It grabs my shoulders and looks me squarely in the eye.
“Hey. Think about him.”
I flinch. It’s too hot to hold, too bright to see.
Handwriting is a living thing.
There’s a box of love notes, cards, and printed emails in the basement. Someday I’ll open it.
Right now, it’s enough to know it’s there.