Letters are the things that you are left

with in the empty rooms of loss. Hold

Illustration by Rebeccah Mary Hartz

the paper in your hand. Pretend

it is skin. Caress this pale skin with

your fingertips, attend to the scrape and drag of your

calluses and ragged cuticles. Wish that you were still

unbroken, a better archivist. Read the small

letters, pressed and curled into paper by a loved

hand, and breathe

in the spaces between the words.

Memorize the salutations, the startling

idiosyncrasy of signature. Write

back, find words for everything.

Even if there’s

no one left

to mail to.