Saturday.  “Mail for you,” his dad would say.  “On the table.”

“From?”

“Doesn’t say.  Minneapolis.”

Interested, he would pick up the small envelope and see his name written in handwriting he knew.  It’s been a while since he’s talked with her, so he opens the letter quickly, but he does not tear the envelope.  He is a neat man.

He reads her letter and can picture her, sitting in front of him that night at the pub, eyes wide while he talks of Europe and Jesus.  She asks great questions.  In his memory, her eyes are intense, but he does not know what color they are, and it makes him sad.

The letter is very much her, and she is still praying for him.  Not giving up on me.  She misses him, wants to see him.  I should at least give her a call.  But he hasn’t finished processing his thoughts about the Twin Cities and about her, and those eyes of an unnamed color have been in many of his dreams.  It is good to be missed. 

It’s been a crazy time, but her note is like an anchor—or like a magnet.  She makes him feel as if he could tackle life again.  She pours spirit back into him; he can feel his confidence stretching against what he feels are his limits.  “I’ve missed you,” he thinks.  He wants to sit across from her again, hear her stories, regain his energy somehow through their time together, and this time, he will be sure to note the color of her eyes.