I turn the page:
The handwritten letter was shock enough. I can’t remember ever having seen his handwriting.
Maybe once… when he was teaching me French.
A ghastly language.
As I turn the page, I can’t wait to read the rest, so I let my eyes scan down and come to rest on the final sentence.
Is anything really final?
We’ve said goodbye so many times I don’t believe in them anymore.
“Am I too late?” it says.
I laugh out loud at the absurdity of it.
Yes, I think.
But then I wonder.
Is anything ever too late?