a letter to my opa

if i were to write you a letter, i’d write it in black ink. i’d use the pen i can never seem to find–the one whose mark is just bold enough to tell my story, but just thin enough to be unobtrusive. the paper would be heavy–not stiff, but substantial, nonetheless. it would probably be a bit smudged, for a variety of reasons, and i’d probably send it to you in a recycled envelope. you’d open it and smile. you’d sit on the curbside and read it at the mailbox.
i’d write you the most beautiful letter in the world. i’d use words that match your eyes–everything painted a pale blue with a hint of sadness behind a resevoir of love and kindness. my greeting would reach your ears like a symphony…but you’d know to listen carefully for my greatest secret, which would undoubtedly be revealed when everyone else had lost interest. you’d hear me when everyone had stopped listening.
i’d write something incredible about your heart. i’d tell you how much you mean to me and why i admire you so. i’d struggle through a few german phrases just because i know you’d read the letter aloud to oma, and your german is so beautiful to listen to.
i’d want to be there when you read it. i’d watch you watch me speak through the evenelope, the dark ink, and the heavy paper. i’d make it a black and white memory instead of just a dream.
(if i were to write you a letter)