Thomas Anderson

singer, songwriter, rock 'n' roller

Love Letters

by Thomas Anderson

from the album The Debris Field

The dream is always the same, and I've had it for decades now. I'm visiting a place where I used to live -- an old house or an apartment. It's empty and silent, the walls whitewashed and bare, and my voice echoes as I walk through the rooms. I remember where the bed was and I look through the closets -- if anything is there, it isn't much. I know I'm not staying long so I don't really stop and reminisce. Through the curtainless windows the trees wave indifferently. My footsteps on the bare floor sound the same, as does the refrigerator running in the kitchen. When I leave I go out to the old metal mailboxes which are locked like post office boxes. In the logic of dreams, I still have the key to my old mailbox. I open it, and there is the accumulated mail of years waiting for me -- junk mail, old bank statements, a few Christmas cards, and a few notes with familiar handwriting on them in a feminine hand. The dates of the postmarks long past, never forwarded, never answered. I hold them in my hands and I think, "So this is where all the love letters went." They're mine like a consolation prize.