Day 8/28
A few days ago my mother and I sat in a floor in front of her hope chest (we’re Southern so that’s a thing) looking through letters my father wrote her more than thirty years ago. We cried. Just a few months before I had read through letters addressed to my grandfather. We have a visceral connection to physical indications of memories before us. Paper and history and words and emotions and my darlings and I miss yous and letters are...
