The Unfinished Letter

Drama | read 05 min #shortstories #sentiment #letter

Mr. Bernard was a 102-year-old man, who could still walk without the use of a cane. He prided himself on that fact. Mr. Bernard has most of his teeth intact. Except his one front tooth that got broke when he slipped and hit his mouth on the kitchen sink.

Everybody knew Mr. Bernard was 102 years old because he told everybody that he was 102 years old.

He told the grocery lady when his bill was once $1.02, and he said You know what else is 102? My age! and chuckled.

The post-man knew because once Bernard asked him his age and later replied I’m 75 years older than you. The post-man did the math later.

When he turned 100 years old, Mr. Bernard decided to write a letter to everyone he ever knew in his life.

He didn’t know most of the people’s addresses, or even their names, so some letters he started with Dear friend in 2nd grade who wore khaki pants.

The first ever letter he wrote was to his wife. She died when he was 89 years old. He wrote that he missed her dearly. He also wrote that months after she died, he used to smell her old clothes, just to keep her memory alive. He wrote that she was the love of his life, and that there was no one who could ever replace her. He said that he would look at their old photographs and cry all night. He also wrote that sometimes he still does.

Then he wrote to his son. He wrote that it’s unfortunate that he died before his parents did and wrote that his mother was devastated upon hearing the news of him dying. It took a toll on her health and their marriage, but he assured that they handled it pretty well. Your mother is a very strong lady He wrote. He also wrote that he hopes that they both meet in Afterlife or whatever place people go to after dying. He also hopes to come meet them when his time comes.

Then he wrote to his father and mother, and his little brother who went to play in the fields one day when he was 8 and never returned. He wrote that they searched for him, for so long. For years and years until finally someone told his mother that her boy died. Bernard never knew what was worse, his brother going missing or knowing that his little kid brother had died after years of searching.

Then he wrote to his first ever girlfriend and strangely enough he remembered her name, her favourite song, the little black dress she wore on their first date and how her lips tasted of strawberries when they kissed for the first time. He thanked her for her smile. He also thanked her for breaking up with him Or else I’d never have met my wife! he wrote.

He wrote to the kid in his second grade who got a pebble stuck in his nostril and made him realize that blocking one nostril won’t make a person die.

He thanked a fellow Jew in a concentration camp for giving a piece of bread seeing how starved Bernard was. He thanked him for saving his life.

He thanked the guard outside his camp who used to sing a sweet song in his own language. Though Bernard didn’t understand the song he guessed it was for his wife, far away in her home, probably lonely and waiting for her husband to come home.

He wrote a letter to Ms. Albana who died 30 years ago, who helped him hide after he ran away from the camps, who fed him, clothed him and nursed him back to health. He also thanked her for her sweet innocent daughter who in later years he would marry in the same room where he hid.

Then one day he hurried home after his usual evening walk in the park and wrote a letter to a 50-year-old man who once let him travel in the tram without a ticket. If it weren’t for your help, I’d have been late for my own son’s birth.

After two years of writing letters to people Mr. Bernard ended up writing 99 letters. He wrote to the post-man, his maid, his nursing home help, his neighbour; their son, everyone he ever met and remembered to this day.

He doubted that he may have confused between people and wrote about things which they never did, so he used to read them all over again and spent the entire afternoon sitting on his front porch thinking hard to remember all the details, and if they’re true or not.

His days for the past two years went by quickly — wake up in the morning, wait for is helping maid, get dressed and eat whatever his help had done for breakfast, then take out those letters and sit all day reading and rereading them, making changes, and editing and re-writing any of them which he didn’t find satisfactory.

“You’re going to post them?” Mary, his help once asked.

“Most of them are dead my child,” He smiled “no I’m not writing these letters to post them, I’m writing to keep their memory alive. To assure myself that I didn’t forget anyone who had had an impact on me over my life, and who saved my life.

I’m writing these letters to thank them. Even if they’re not here to read these, I’ll still thank them. These letters are a token of gratitude.”

“How many did you write till now?” She asked. “Ninety-Nine” He replied proudly.Her eyes widened “Ninety-nine? 

I don’t believe that you met ninety-nine people in your life.”

“I am 102 girl. I have met more people than my age.” He smiled. “Did you write one for me?” She asked

“Oh yes, why not. It’s somewhere among these. You want to read it?” He asked.

She thought for a second and said “No, it’s alright. Here have

your juice, I’ll be back by evening. See ya old man! Take care.”

Bernard thought long and hard about who his last letter is going to be. His 100th letter. The grand finale for all the work he did for the last two years.

Then one day he opened a letter and started writing, but he stopped midway, tore up the letter and threw it away.

He struggled for days, thinking about who would be a good fit for his last letter. There wasn’t anyone who he cared more than his wife, but he already wrote a letter to her. A very long one actually. The one letter he most enjoyed and had no trouble remembering the details to.

Then one day in the middle of the night he sat up and started writing his final letter.

One day, his help came unusually late. She bought with her, Gilbert, her pet Labrador. She said she couldn’t leave him all alone at her home today as it was the day she adopted him 5 years ago.

Bernard smiled and pet the dog and went for his usual evening walks.

And by the time he returned, he saw Mary, crying, sitting with her face in her hands, on the porch.

He asked her what’s the matter.

She just shook her head and pointed her finger inside.

Bernard went inside to see his stack of 99 letters torn into pieces. Shredded by the canine.

Looking at the ruins, Bernard felt a sense of déjà vu; he was taken back to the day when he saw his town destroyed. He felt heartbroken then. He felt the same now.

His home, his school, his favorite shop by the street

corner, everything that he ever called his own, was destroyed beyond recognition.

He picked up the pieces of paper and stared at them for a while and he took a step, then forced himself to take another, just like he did when he saw his town in shambles.

Finally he reached the trash can and emptied everything in it. And the last letter by his bedside laid there unfinished.

Dear Bernard, Thank you…

The end.

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