Letters to the Dead
The bitter taste of words left unsaid
You ever catch yourself talking to someone who’s not there anymore? Yeah, me too.
It’s sad how we can spend years with someone, sharing the same space, breathing the same air, and still leave so much unsaid. And then, when they’re gone, suddenly, we’ve got novels worth of words burning in our throats.
Words become weapons, sharper than any knife. We wield them with precision, aiming for the soft spots, the vulnerabilities we’ve spent years learning. Because who knows how to hurt you better than someone who loves you? But apologize? Ahuh. That’s for the weak, right?
We swallow our “I’m sorry”s like bitter pills, choking on pride and stubbornness. Until it’s too late. Suddenly, we’re writing letters to gravestones. Whispering apologies to the wind. As if the dead can hear us. As if they care.
You know what gets me? The sheer waste of it all. All those moments, those chances we let slip by. A kind word unspoken. A hug not given. An “I love you” was swallowed down with morning coffee.
We hoard our affection like misers but spread our anger like confetti at a parade. And for what? I’ve seen people break down at funerals, confessing love and regret to a cold casket. Watched them trace names on headstones, lips moving in silent apology.
But tell me, what good is your tearful confession to a slab of marble? You think your words can penetrate six feet of dirt? That your regret can warm bones grown cold?
Even if you believe in souls, in spirits lingering… what then? You think a ghost can pat you on the back, say “It’s okay, I forgive you”? That the specter of the person you hurt can embrace you, erase the pain you caused?
That’s not how it works. Your “sorry” can’t un-break a heart. It can’t erase the memory of your sharp words, your cold silence, your turned back. Some wounds don’t heal, even after death. It’s a special kind of torture, isn’t it? This ability we have to hurt the ones we love most.
We save our sharpest words, our coldest silences for them. As if love gives us the right to be cruel.
We’re so careful with strangers, aren’t we? All “please” and “thank you” and “how are you?” But with the ones who hold our hearts? We’re careless. Reckless. As if their love is a shield that can deflect our worst selves.
Here’s the truth, plain and ugly: Those letters to the dead? They’re not for them. They’re for us. For our guilt. Our regret. Our desperate need to believe we’re not the assholes who let the most important people in our lives die without knowing how much they mattered.
So here’s a thought. Next time you feel the urge to snap at your partner, to roll your eyes at your mom, to ignore your dad’s call – stop. Take a breath. Remember that one day, they won’t be there to hear your apologies.
Tell them now. The good stuff, the hard stuff, all of it. Because life’s too short for letters to the dead. And love? Real, messy, beautiful love? It deserves to be spoken out loud to hearts that are still beating, to ears that can still hear.
Don’t wait until it’s too late. Don’t let your love become another unread letter on a cold gravestone.
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✍ — Published by Libby Shively McAvoy at Dancing Elephants Press. Click here for submission guidelines.
