Hey, it's me. I know this number probably doesn't work anymore, but I found something today.
Your hospital bracelet. From when you were born. I keep it in a drawer with old receipts and dried-out pens.
I was cleaning out the kitchen, and there it was. Pale blue plastic, your name in smudged ink.
It took me back to that afternoon. You were in surgery for three hours. I had nowhere to go but the waiting room, but they kicked me out at visiting hours.
I walked down to the dentist's office on Main. Dr. Patterson, who'd been our family dentist for twenty years. He was locking up, but he saw my face. He unlocked the door and let me sit in his waiting room until the hospital called.
He gave me a cup of water and a magazine from 1978. I didn't read a word. I just sat there, staring at the fish tank, counting the breaths I took.
When the call came, he drove me to the hospital himself. Didn't charge me a thing. Just said, 'She'll be fine. You'll see.'
I'm leaving this message because I want you to know: that bracelet is the only thing I've kept from that day. The rest is just a story. But the bracelet is real. And so is the dentist who let a stranger sit in his waiting room.
Anyway. I love you. That's all.