It
was the solstice. Not that the day had any special meaning to me, but I
do remember that my facebook feed was alive with well wishes and
celebrations of the longest day of the year. That was the day I got the
letter.
It
arrived in a powder blue envelope, smelling of old books, fresh
currency, and rose water. Perhaps it was all in my mind, but it felt
heavier than a normal first class envelope. (Later, I would tell myself
it was the weight of the expected guilt associated with it.) The
return address was somewhere in New York, handwritten in beautiful, near
calligraphy. And not some font that’s supposed to fool a person into
thinking it was hand prepared. I mean, you could make out the pen
strokes on the letters.