there were two brothers, our uncles, who had not, in our lifetime, written to each other. the elder lived in a port town and worked, eventually, as a draughtsman; the younger lived inland and built, year by year, a small business in cabinetry. they had been close as children. we had photographs. there was even, our mother said, a single year in which they shared a room and a cough.
the quarrel had been about money or about a girl or about a piece of furniture; we were given each version in turn, depending on the aunt. what was steady, across all versions, was that they did not write. they sent letters back unopened. they passed messages, when forced to, through our mother, who delivered them as if she were carrying water in a sieve.
when the elder was dying, the younger came. he sat by the bed. he did not speak. our mother said afterwards that this had been, in their language, a long letter. she said that this had been, in fact, the only letter that had ever needed to be written, and that he had, by sitting there for an afternoon, finally posted it.