I found his handwriting today.  In my checkbook.

That’s all it takes.

I can picture the pen in his hand, the intentionally careless scrawl across the page.

It snuck up on me, like a whiff of his cologne.  It grabs my shoulders and looks me squarely in the eye.

“Hey.  Think about him.”

I flinch.  It’s too hot to hold, too bright to see.

Handwriting is a living thing.

There’s a box of love notes, cards, and printed emails in the basement.  Someday I’ll open it.

Right now, it’s enough to know it’s there.

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