Cali sat at her kitchen table, cup of hot cocoa in hand, with her eyes fixed on the clock. It was a half passed one in the afternoon. She’d spent that last half hour sitting there, waiting for the time to pass. Her initial plan for the day had been to keep herself busy with chores around the house. The only flaw in that plan was that she couldn’t sleep all night and so had gotten a very early start on the list of things to do. So, now here she was, waiting for the hands on the clock to inch their way around to two o’clock. That was when the mail was usually delivered.

Maybe she shouldn’t have taken the day off from work? At least there she would have spreadsheets and meetings to distract her throughout the day. Of course, if she’d gone into work she would have to have waited the entire day before she could come and check her mail. That, and she’d have to smile through all of the well intentioned, but nonetheless upsetting, attempts by her co-workers to offer condolences. Three years wasn’t a long enough amount of time for people to forget such things, and it didn’t help that her boss made it a point to remember those sorts of things and then to remind others as well.

Three years.

Cali let her eyes drop from the clock and she found herself staring down instead at the marshmallow remnants melting in her mug. It was hard to think about the past three years. It seemed to be an eternity and yet at the same time it felt so brief.

Three years alone in the house. Three years waking up in an empty bed. Three years without dirty dishes or laundry that weren’t her own. Three years without the sound of those voices she’d come to know and love so well and so deeply.

The surface of her hot cocoa rippled and splashed as tears began to fall into it. Cali sniffed and wiped her eyes before taking a sip of the cocoa. The hot, creamy chocolate coated her mouth and she savored the moment. She found a small piece of marshmallow with her tongue and squished it against the roof of her mouth, releasing a surge of additional sweetness. These days she only drank hot cocoa a few times a year in order to keep the experience special. In years passed she used to drink it almost every day from late Fall until early Spring. Back then she had other people to enjoy it with and they’d make a big pot of it to share in the evenings.

At times, the emptiness she felt seemed like a physical hole inside her chest. She ached to see those faces, to hold those hands, to hear those laughs. The worst part of it all was that as time wore on she found herself struggling to recall those details that used to fill her everyday life. Simple things like favorite colors, food preferences, and favorite games began to fade away from her memory.

It was the memories she held onto that kept her going. Memories of wrapping presents late into the night, searching for the brown paper and twine her husband had always insisted on using. Memories of late nights turning into early mornings while reading books aloud to one another, the looks of excitement and fascination on her two children’s faces motivating her to keep going regardless of the hour. Memories of normal days, everyone going off to work or school, waving goodbye and snatching last-minute hugs.

A faint chime sounded and her eyes shot back up to the clock. It was two o’clock. Cali fought down the urge to rush out to her mailbox. The mail was usually delivered by this time, but not always and she didn’t want to build up her expectations too early. She set her mug down and gently scooted herself out from the table. Her steps were calm and controlled but her hands kept shaking slightly. Her stomach was somewhat nervous as well and her mouth began to feel dry.

Through the window beside her front door, she could see out to her mailbox. There was no way to tell if the mail had been delivered yet or not but there was no sign of the mail truck along her street. By this time of day that usually meant it had already come and gone.

Before she knew it, Cali was standing beside her mailbox, hand on the lid and trembling. She opened it, and there inside she saw a small package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. In a flash she had the package in hand and was hurrying back into the house to open it. The first such package had arrived not long after…after she’d found herself suddenly and unexpectedly alone. The next one arrived on her birthday. The packages kept coming, never missing any special dates.

Back at the kitchen table she lovingly untied the twine and folded back the paper. Each package had been slightly different, sometimes having treats or nic nacs. This time it held a book. In addition to the small gifts, the packages always contained three, handwritten letters. She knew the handwriting well and slowly traced each word with her finger as she read.

The first letter she read was always her husband’s, then their daughter’s, and finally their son’s. When the first package arrived, she’d assumed it was some sort of prank, but as the packages continued to come and the letters detailed events that only her family would have known, or even things that had happened to her after their deaths while she was home alone, had convinced her that, somehow, inexplicably, her husband and children were, in fact, sending her these packages.

She read and reread the letters several times over, dotting the pages with her tears. She didn’t try to keep from crying. She missed them more than she could ever say and yet these brief moments of connection filled that hole within her, if even just for a short while. As she read, it seemed to her that she could almost hear their voices, speaking to her the words of their letters. She could envision the steady demeanor of her husband, the playfulness of her daughter, and the childish giggle of her son as he laughed at his own nonsensical jokes.

The book, as each of the letters explained, was for her to read aloud one of these nights and to please not stop in any inconvenient or particularly tense part of the book. It wasn’t a terribly thick book, just a couple hundred pages. After she’d read the letters enough times that she had them practically memorized, she took the book into the living room, started a fire in the hearth, and began to read. It wasn’t exactly evening, but she had the day off and figured there wasn’t any reason to wait.

She cried several times throughout the book, recognizing the places where her children would gasp at revelations or else make wild predictions about what would happen next. She thought she could feel them there with her, her children at her feet, lying on the rug and looking up at her with their eager eyes while her husband sat in the other chair, eyes lightly closed and smiling gently until it was his turn to read.

Cali had to take a number of breaks that evening to allow her voice to rest but she always made sure to take them during calm parts of the story. She refilled her mug several times and drank each drop of hot cocoa before continuing on with the story. It was early in the morning when she finally reached the end of the book and let it close with a satisfying CLUMP. In years passed this would be accompanied by cheers and then groans as everyone realized what time it was and that they all still had work or school in the morning.

The fire was little more than coals by this time and after a quick stir with the poker the last remnants of flame had flickered out. She placed the book on the bookshelf and then took her empty mug to the kitchen. To her surprise, there were three additional mugs sitting beside the sink, each one with small dregs of hot cocoa at the bottom. She added hers to the group, rinsed and washed them, and hung them up to dry before going up to bed.

With each package, it seemed, the hole inside her chest closed just that much more. It was a slow process, to be sure, but as she closed her eyes to go to sleep, for the first time in three years she felt the hope that she wouldn’t always feel such terrible loss and sadness.