The Letter
It showed up on a Saturday in mid-December, stuck between two pieces of junk mail. I would have missed it if not for the wet, folded corner that stuck out like a thumb. The envelope was made of cheap, wrinkled paper, and there was no return address, but the postmark was from Boston. I sat down at the kitchen table and stared at it as though it were a weapon. This was around noon. As usual, the rest of the day spread before me like an ocean. After turning it over in my hands at least a dozen times I tore into it to find a single piece of lined loose-leaf paper on which she had written in blue...
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