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“Day by day and night by night we were together – all else has long been forgotten by me.” ~ Walt Whitman

The letters fell into my possession through chance and luck, and maybe some nudge of the universe that understood only I could put them out and share a bittersweet story with the world – one of likely many similar stories from a time when it was dangerous and deadly to be different. They came from a time when men would not have typically written to each other, and if by some strange stroke they did, not much of import would have been said. In that respect, there is more to be read between the lines and within the omissions than is usually there, which makes deciphering this love story – if that’s what it is – especially tricky. I’ve taken great license and probably made a bunch of shit up, but it didn’t really feel like I was writing this. Something or someone else compelled my hands across lined paper, slowly drawing forth a story that is based only on letters – ancient, forgotten, discarded letters that may never have even reached their intended recipient. 

The small cache of letters was found in a hidden drawer of a worn and battered chest in Maine, a treasure that came across my path in some antique store I haven’t been able to find again since. The wood smelled strongly of pine, like the smell of history. The chest was stamped with some identifying information that once may have meant something to someone, like the dates stamped on certain Wedgwood pieces which were forged in England. 

While moving it, I felt and heard something shuffle but that made no sense as I’d just cleaned and emptied the inside. Looking around for something else that was making a noise, perhaps some fly or bee that was around, or the metal-studded ends of a pair of drawstrings on shorts, there was nothing. I lifted the chest and shook it again, and there, distinctly, was the sound of something moving. Carefully, I opened it up again, and found nothing. While it was open I lifted it and shook it once more – some shuffling sounded, something was in it, but I was looking inside and saw nothing – then I turned it over and the faintest outline of a small trap door revealed itself to my eyes when they stopped focusing so hard. 

A collection of letters, written on degrading parchment, bound with fraying twine, some missing pieces chewed by mice or moths, fell to the ground. They tell the abstract story of falling in love through scattered scenes and pictures of moments, sketches of feelings and rough renderings of emotions – nothing too concrete or spelled neatly out until the last one – but a story appears between the lines, within the very fibers of the thick paper, if you know how to listen, if you cull the sentiment behind the silence. The world was quieter then, and it’s usually easier to make sense of things in the quiet. 

Rather than get into the particulars of how the letters happened to find their way to this chest (because that might incriminate otherwise blameless folks who only wanted the story to see the light of the internet) I’ll keep this in the language and style of the story that was told, and let the narrative, put together as best as I could glean, speak for itself, at least from the point of view of the younger protagonist/narrator. Like all episodes of storytelling, something is sure to be lost in this rendition, but since when have I proclaimed this to be a space of accuracy, moral or otherwise?

Ripped in two, the first part of the very last letter our Narrator ever wrote to The Cowboy reads like a cliffhanger, given even more suspense by the mystery of someone’s ultimate disappearance – a mystery shrouded and still unsolved by the eventual appearance of a body, and the solving of one mystery so often leads to more mysteries, secrets loving company and kindred spirits as they do. This letter is the longest of the bunch – a full two pages, written carefully and deliberately, and gives the clearest picture of what may have happened between these two men. I present the first half of it now, to give you an idea of where this story is headed. 

The Last Letter to the Cowboy – So Far as Can be Told

Dear Cowboy – Forgive me if you’re not a real Cowboy. You never did explain what you meant by that. You never explained a lot of things you said you would, like the story of your parents that you promised would explain your origin, and I never mustered the courage to insist. 
This letter has been written a hundred times, in a hundred different ways, and placed in a hundred locations where I thought you might surreptitiously discover it. If it finds you at all, it will be a bit of a miracle, but it’s the only hope I have left, and it isn’t much. 
This will be my last attempt at finding you, but you will always be in the back of my mind, in whatever new town or city I stumble into, and it will subconsciously impel me to traverse the world in the secret latent hope that I will one day happen upon you. You will ruin me for all others who follow in your wake – the ones who dare to kiss me, the ones who think they can tame, the ones who love unconditionally and smother me with affection – no one will ever fill the hole you left. Maybe that’s the fucked-up mark of true love, and if you find it and ruin it then your life will never be quite whole again. I feel like that’s what you did to us. But what do I know. I’m only twenty. I still live with my parents. And you… you are gone. 
I fear this is the last letter I will ever send to you. If intuition is any indicator, you have left us all for good, and maybe forever. This letter will have to do as my final thank you and my final farewell. I don’t know where you are and I don’t know where I am headed. Will we ever meet again? 
Thought I’d spend the rest of my life roaming with you, believed when you said as much, but that’s not how it turned out. I thought a cowboy was true to his word. Maybe only one word, not the many beautiful ones you wound around us late at night and into the mornings. Thought I then might spend it trying to find you but that feels wrong too. You said love shouldn’t be a chase or a hunt. Instead I gotta let it go – let you go. But not before I say a few more things… 

{The first part of the letter ends here, along a torn, frayed line which was subsequently taped back together – and we will take our leave on this tantalizing note, because otherwise what would impel anyone to return?}

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There is eloquence and poetry in this letter, in the way that only cowboys can convey, the way that only cowboys might understand. (I’ve intentionally ignored the grammatical and spelling errors as well.) In the earlier letters, which will be revealed in later posts, there is much less – literally. The first few read as almost perfunctory, but there is a kindness and softness that wouldn’t be common at such a time and in such a place. As with most letters, there is more to be said and gleaned from what isn’t written, what lies between the lines. You’ll forgive me for the liberties about to be taken, and I hope the Narrator forgives me as well. From here until the end, you’ll be reading his voice. His name is Levi. He is not quite a cowboy when this story begins. 

~ The FALL of the COWBOY ~ Autumn 2026 ~