Love Letters

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.