My aunt kept a battered hatbox on her closet shelf. I never thought much of it until she passed.
Inside were every letter I had sent her over thirty years. Also a ribboned bundle from my brother.
We haven’t spoken since Dad’s funeral. Eight years of silence, and here were his words from before.
I read them in my new apartment, under a lamp with a garage-sale sticker still on the base. Four dollars.
The substitute teacher I had in sixth grade once said, ‘Some people write because they have to.’ I think she meant people like me.
Writing to my brother felt heavier than any surgery I’ve done on a sick animal. But I sealed the envelope anyway.
That hatbox sits on my nightstand now. It’s the one thing I’d grab if the building caught fire.