Correspondence

Correspondence. A mute wanted, at one time, to be a letter writer. To friends, the mute would say quietly, “I will write to you” as well as a mute could say which was not very well because he hadn’t the proclivity of tongue. The mute hid his mouth, his fingers curled under as if chewing on his nails but only rubbing his lips as he paced in front of stationary at the office supply store. Never making his choice, the mute would leave empty handed. The mute worked on his script for hours on end, developing blisters on his cramped right hand. He once bought a kit of wax and stamps to seal his letters. The mute thought of many things to share with pen pals, some of whom lived very far while others where nearby. Back at the office supply, he felt the stock texture and weight of the reams. He made flourishes with pens. The mute was near abled to say something.

Dear Friend, though I hadn’t much to say when last we met, I am grateful for any amount of time we spent. The simple stories and smiles will last me a lifetime even if we never meet again.

The mute then realized he had nothing else to say. The things he imagined he would say never made sense on paper. Too silly. The mute took to cussing. A fucking world class wild ass swearer!

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