The isolation journals: Day 1 — letter to a stranger.

Today’s prompt via Suleika Jaouad. Write a letter to a stranger — someone imaginary, someone you met once, someone you only know from a distance. Tell them any and everything: when you first noticed them and what has happened since, how you’d like your day to start and to end, or what’s been on your mind. Or tell them a story about a time when something difficult led you to an unexpected, interesting, maybe even wondrous place. You may be stuck inside four walls, but there are no boundaries. Say whatever you want to say, whatever you think they need to hear.

Hello.

I never did learn your name, or very much about you, but I’m writing to apologise for the relief I felt when you died.

There are times when I can still hear the newsreader announcing your death as dispassionately as if he was commenting on how quickly the paint was drying on the studio wall.

“The M7 near Portlaoise remains closed this morning following a fatal accident overnight…”

“The incident, which happened at around 9.55pm…”

“The driver of the car was pronounced dead at the scene…”

I remember the details so clearly because it so easily could have been my friend Aileen. She’d left our house at a time, and always drove at a speed, that would have put her in that area at around that time the night before.

And most unusually, she hadn’t sent a text to confirm she’d arrived home safely.

I text Aileen. Those awful few minutes waiting for one tick to turn to two, and then those grey ticks to turn to blue felt like a lifetime. But eventually they do, and she rings to confirm that she is okay. My heart swells, not just with relief, but also because a part of me was thankful that it is someone else’s grief.

For that, all I can do is apologise once more.

All I’ve ever learned about you is that you were a 47-year old man. I’d love to know more. What were your dreams, your fears? I’d even love to know if you had plans for the following weekend? That’s what we really miss when we lose those we love isn’t it? A spontaneous coffee or a chance encounter in the street that leads to a two-hour catch-up.

But most importantly, I often think about who you left behind. Who wasn’t lucky enough to get a call to say you were okay? Little did I know that I would fill their shoes just two months later, when Aileen didn’t call to say she was okay, when those two little ticks remained forever grey.

But this letter isn’t about Aileen, or even me. It’s about you. I’m sorry it had to be you that night. And I’m so very sorry I was relieved it was.

Steve