The letter I still have not sent

The envelope has been ready longer than the letter. I wrote the address in blue ink last spring, checked the postcode and put a stamp in the corner. Since then I have replaced the pages inside it three times.

It is addressed to my aunt. We haven't spoken properly for several years. The reasons are familiar to both of us and would be tedious to explain to anyone else: a conversation that went badly, another conversation about the first, then enough time for silence to become the easier arrangement.

The first version tried to explain everything. I gave dates. I quoted things she had said, then explained what I had meant. Reading it back, I could see how much work I was asking her to do before she reached the sentence saying I missed her.

The second version apologised so thoroughly that it stopped being true. I wanted to make a reply easy, but I was also writing around things I still felt hurt by. I put that version away too.

The letter currently in the envelope begins with a photograph. I found it while packing: my aunt at a garden table, holding a plate and laughing at someone outside the frame. I don't know who took it. I remember the tablecloth because I spilled something on it shortly afterwards and spent the rest of lunch sitting very still.

I have written that I found the photograph, that I would like to send her a copy and that I hope she is well. Then I have written the sentence about missing her. There is more I could say, but I don't think it needs to go into the first letter.

I am still uncertain about posting it. A letter can be an invitation, but it can also arrive as an unwelcome demand. I cannot know in advance which it will be. She may be pleased, irritated or simply busy. She may decide not to reply. I would need to respect that, rather than send another letter asking what the silence meant.

For now, the envelope is in the shallow drawer under my desk. I take it out occasionally and read the pages without editing them. That is new. Usually I reach for a pen before I have finished the first paragraph.

I haven't sent it, and I don't have a neat ending to offer in its place. I have made a copy of the photograph. It is sitting beside the envelope, ready if I decide to put it in.