The essay below is a random essay that I wrote. Not quite my favorite theme, but I guess I will write another essay with my favorite theme next time.
Note: All names used are entirely fictional
The Letter
I promised myself that I would write more. In the midst of saying our goodbyes, I found myself agreeing to write to you on a weekly basis. It was an agreement that I could and will honour. After all, I will miss you. However, as the months passed by, I found myself not writing, not putting my thoughts in ink as you have every week. I was busy. Busy with work, busy with studies, busy with life over here without you. At first, when your letters came in, I dutifully wrote back. Now, when your letters poured in, I would put it to one side, and would delay writing back. Like our mama used to say: ‘Put off doing something important is like throwing a boomerang. It will hit you hard when you least expect it.’ When I little, I thought it sounded lame, but I did not expect it when two police officers came knocking on my door, bearing the terrible news.
I still can remember the exact exchange of words between the officers and me. It’s funny how the human mind works. When we want to remember something, like a paragraph of facts for exams or an item to get while shopping, we would forget it. When we want to forget something, like terrible moments in our lives, we will remember it.
It was an off-day from work, so I was at home, studying. Then, a brief knock on my door, and I went to see who it was.
‘In this the home of Mr. Law? ‘
‘Yes, that’s me. What’s the matter?’
‘Sir, your sister got into an accident at the 78 Freeway.’
‘What?! Damn, how...who...’
‘Sir....’
‘Where is she warded now? What was she doing at the highway anyway? I will...’
‘Mr. Law, your sister was bought to the nearest hospital. But she...she didn’t make it. A van hit her car. The driver was drunk, and we have him in custody now.’
‘What? You are saying...’
‘I am sorry Mr. Law.’
So that was it. The person who had cared for me since our mama died. The person who was always there for me. The only person whom I wholly trust. We were siblings, but we were also best friends. Gone.
Now I wish I wrote back every week. No, I wish I wrote to you every day. Hand-written letters may not say a million things, but it carries meaning. It reflects the effort put in by the author. I remembered you saying once about letters: ‘For me, email, Facebook cannot replace hand written letters. It just doesn’t carry the originality and meaning. That’s why I always wrote to mama when I was studying out of state’. And I promised to write to you every week, but I didn’t.
I even found out why you were on the highway that day. Mrs Lee, mama’s old friend, visited me a few days after the incident. She was always someone who did not mince words.
‘Karl, I am sorry about...’
‘It’s okay Mrs Lee.’
‘You look tired and haggard.’
‘It’s been a tough week.’
‘Karl, do you know why Jessie was on the highway?’
‘I don’t know. She never told me.’
‘She tried.’
‘What do you mean? You know why she’s on the highway?’
‘She told me before she left, Karl. She was on her way to see you. She was worried about you not writing back. She called your mobile just before she left. ‘
‘She was driving to see me? I dropped my phone a few days ago, it’s not working. Damn it, if my phone was working...’
‘Karl, if you actually wrote back and told her you were doing fine, she wouldn’t be worried. She wouldn’t drive out of state just to see you.’
Mrs. Lee didn’t need to say it out aloud, but I can see it in her eyes. She blamed me for Jessie’s death. I wasn’t angry with her. I blamed myself too. If only I replied your letters. I am sorry. There's nothing else I can say, or write. So right now, when it’s too late, I finally put ink onto paper. This is my belated letter to you.
