Finally wrote the letter I kept rehearsing for a patient

Thirty-seven years I've kept the words in my head, rehearsing them in the dark like a man learning to pray. This morning, before the kettle, I got the chipped mug down from the high shelf and wrote it out — not apologies, just what I remember: how he taught me to leave a room without letting the door do the talking, how the 1987 rain made us both shut up and listen. Cracks held his coffee then, and I suppose they hold love now, too.