A place for words addressed to someone.
All letters are private.
I have known my mother all my life, but there is a whole person who existed before me that I barely know. I write to her as a girl, to ask what she wanted from life and tell her about the woman she became. I want to know which parts of that girl she still recognises in herself.
I write to the version of me who never left, because I sometimes wonder which of us has had the better life. I tell him what leaving gave me and ask about the people and places he got to keep. I wonder whether he wishes he had my life, and whether I would know what to do with his.
I write back to a day when nothing seemed worth remembering. I try to recall who was in the kitchen, what we talked about, and all the things I assumed we would do again. It bothers me how little attention I paid to a day I would now give so much to have back.
I write to the version of me who has reached the things I keep working towards. I ask whether he is satisfied, or whether he still wakes up thinking about what is missing. I want to know what finally made him stop wanting more, and whether I would like the person he has become.
I write to someone I hurt and acknowledge what I did without explaining it away. Understanding it later does not change what they had to live through at the time. I give them the apology I owe them, without asking for forgiveness or anything else in return.
I tell my childhood home what happened to the people who once lived there. I wonder what it would make of us now, and whether it would recognise the people we have become. I ask about things I remember, because I am no longer sure how much happened that way and how much I have changed in the telling.
I write to God in the words I had before I knew what a prayer was supposed to sound like. I ask where He was when I felt alone, and whether He heard the things I could not bring myself to say. I still have some of the same questions, and I do not think there is much point pretending otherwise.
I explain why I kept things that will probably look worthless to someone going through my desk. A receipt, a worn book, or a small note can hold a part of your life that nobody else would know to look for. I want them to understand a little of what they are holding before they decide what to keep.
I ask for some of my time back and begin making a list of the hours I would choose. The list fills up with ordinary afternoons, when I had nowhere to be and the people I wanted to see were already there. I find myself asking for time I once thought I could afford to waste.
I send a letter back to the years before I met someone I would come to love. I tell them what I was doing while they were living somewhere else, and wonder how often our lives might have almost crossed. I think about how someone can become so important to you when, for so long, you had no idea they existed.
I write to the last person who will remember me and ask what they know. Perhaps it is a story, a phrase, or something small I did that I would never have thought to mention. I hope whatever has reached them gives them some idea of who I was, including the people I loved and what I tried to do for them.
I write to whoever first made people feel guilty for an afternoon that produced nothing. I ask why a long lunch, an aimless walk, or time with someone I love should have to justify itself. I recognise how often I judge my own days this way, and question what that has actually given me.