Draft

I wrote it on the Notes app first, which is how you know I'd been thinking about it too long. It went on for four paragraphs. It had a bit at the start about how I wasn't trying to reopen anything, which is what you say when you're trying to reopen something. It had a bit in the middle about the flat, and how I'd finally fixed the tap she used to give out about, and how it was stupid that it took her leaving for me to do it. It had a bit near the end about her mam, who I still think about, and who'd sent me a card at Christmas that I hadn't told anyone about. And it had a last line I rewrote maybe twelve times. Every version of it was some variation of "I hope you're well," and every version sounded like a solicitor. It was gone one by then. Dublin was doing that thing where it's not raining but the windows are wet anyway. I read the whole draft back and it was, honestly, a decent piece of writing. Clear. Not begging. Fair to everyone in it. I could hear my brother's voice saying, "Sound, but what's it for?" That's the question, isn't it. What's it for. I knew what it was for. It was for her to read it and feel something, and then for her to reply, and then for us to be in contact again in a way that wasn't final. It was a door propped open with a very well-written note. I copied it. I opened the actual thread, the one that ends in August with her saying she'd left the spare key under the bin and me saying "grand, thanks," and I pasted the four paragraphs in. I looked at it there for a long time. The text box went tall with it. Then I deleted it and wrote, "Fixed the tap. Thought you'd want to know. Hope you're good," and sent that before I could tidy it up. She replied in the morning. Two words and a thumbs up. "Finally!! 👍" Which is fine. That's exactly right, actually. That's what it was for.