i keep the letters i’ve received in my drawer beneath a tiny bowl shaped almost like a flower and a box of old art supplies, acrylics and stiff brushes. each letter is on gossamer sheets of lined paper, construction paper, the typical notebook paper, white 8.5x11 pulled out of the printer in a rush and scrawled in sharpie. the addresses, destination and return, are shaky, the same way mine are, always nervous to make sure it arrives at the right place and in the right hands, not to be intercepted or lost by a mail carrier who has misplaced his or her reading glasses that day. a new envelope when you make that 8 look too much like a B. some choose the stamp carefully, star wars ones for a nerdy girl, whatever is in your wallet for him as you lick it and drop it in the mail on your way out the door. the envelopes become looser, worn with time and the countless times you have pulled the letters out to read and reread the words inside. these are homes for the things you have committed to paper, ink being the writer’s blood, and thus, to memory, posterity. they hold the words and thoughts that link people together inextricably, without cause or reason except that it is true.
