The other day I dug boxes from my closet, boxes that hadn’t seen the light of day in years.

The first box to emerge was full of papers: yellowing newspapers, ancient school assignments, random scraps that seemed important at the time. But as I sorted through I came across a rubber-banded stack of envelopes. At first glance it looked like a stack of letters I’d saved, but upon closer inspection I noticed they were all addressed in my hand. I slid the top one free, a tad surprised to find it unsealed, & pulled the sheet of paper inside.

A mon amigo…, it began in my “neatest” hand. I’d gone on to say how I’d been thinking about the addressee more often than usual, how a keen fascination had permeated my thoughts, & how many things had triggored thoughts of the addressee. I smiled a little as I read.

I went through the rest; they were all the same, pretty much. They all said the same thing with different words, & all had suffered the same fate.

“Ah, The letters we can never send,” I sighed to myself.