The envelope came with no return address. The mailman (English, Ted, twenty years on the route) put it in the box and thought: again.
Isaac Stoltzfus saw the envelope that evening. Recognized the handwriting immediately — Daniel. Son. Left five years ago, after baptism. Meidung. Name not spoken at the table. Photo removed. Bed given to the youngest.
Isaac held the envelope ten minutes. Stood on the porch. Looked at the field (corn, good year). Wife Rebecca stood at the window pretending not to watch.
The Letter
'Dad. I live in Pittsburgh. Work construction. Don't drink (mostly). Not married. Small apartment, but warm. Miss Nellie (the cow, not a girl). Miss Mom's bread. Miss the smell of hay in the morning. Don't miss Bishop Samuel's sermons (sorry). Don't know why I'm writing. Maybe so you know I'm alive. Maybe so I know you're alive. Daniel.'
No 'forgive me,' no 'I want to come back,' no 'I was wrong.' Just — alive.
The Reply
Isaac went inside. Sat at the table. Rebecca set tea. Didn't ask — she knew.
Isaac took paper. Pencil. Wrote:
'Daniel. Corn's good this year. Nellie had a calf (bull, named Moses). Mom bakes bread Thursdays and Saturdays. Hay smells the same. Bishop Samuel's the same too (also sorry). We're alive. Dad.'
No 'come back,' no 'we forgive you,' no 'you broke your vow.' Just — alive.
He put the letter in an envelope. Wrote 'Daniel Stoltzfus, General Delivery, Pittsburgh, PA.' Gave it to Ted in the morning.
Ted looked at the envelope. Looked at Isaac. Said nothing. Mailmen know when to be quiet.
Letters went back and forth every three months for five years. Corn, Nellie, bread, hay. Construction, apartment, rain, loneliness. Not a word about returning. Not a word about shunning. Two people who couldn't talk at the same table, talking across six hundred miles of paper.