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.