Tønsberg, 9 November
FROM THE CARBON COPIES
A few letters, shared with permission, names and places changed.
Tønsberg, 9 November
A COMPLAINT
To a ferry company, about a lost bicycle.
Dear Customer Services,
On the fourteenth of June I wheeled a green bicycle onto your 14:10 crossing and left it where your staff asked me to, against the rail on the car deck. When we arrived, I got off. The bicycle did not.
I have since written to you twice and telephoned four times. I have been told that the bicycle was never on board, that it was on board and is now in Sandefjord, and that bicycles are the owner’s responsibility. It cannot be all three.
I am not asking for the bicycle back. I am asking you to admit that it existed. A short letter saying so, and the 4,200 kroner it cost, would close the matter.
Yours faithfully,
Kari Lund
Tønsberg, 9 November
AN APOLOGY
To a sister, about a summer and a boat.
Dear Marit,
I was wrong about the boat, and about a great deal else that summer. I have known it for a long time. I am sorry it has taken me nine years to write it down.
You said the boards needed replacing before she went in the water. You were right, and I would not listen. What I said to you on the jetty was unkind and untrue. I won’t repeat it here; I think you remember it better than I do.
You don’t have to answer this. I only wanted you to have it, in writing, from me.
Your sister,
Hanne
Tønsberg, 9 November
A THANK-YOU
To a mathematics teacher, thirty years late.
Dear Mr Berg,
You will not remember me. I sat by the window in your class in 1994, and I failed the first two tests of the year.
You kept me behind one afternoon, and I thought I was in trouble. You said I was not bad at mathematics, only frightened of it. It took me thirty years to see the difference. I am an engineer now. I build bridges, mostly small ones.
Thank you. I should have said so at the time.
With gratitude,
Tone Vik
Tønsberg, 9 November
TO A FUTURE SELF
To be opened at fifty.
Dear me,
If you are reading this, you made it to fifty. I hope you still sing in the car.
Right now you are forty. The children are small, and you are tired in a way that sleep does not fix. I want you to know that you were happy anyway, most days, and that you noticed.
Ring your brother. Eat the good cheese. Don’t tidy before people come.
Love,
You, at forty
“I have rehearsed this for eleven years, and I still begin with the weather.”
From a love letter, the only kind I never show in full. About love letters