She wrote a letter and she wondered if it might be printed, folded, placed into a khaki pocket, and discovered years from now, when she and the person she addressed it to were both entombed, no longer alive except in whatever meager legacies they were able to make while they’d had hearts and limbs and functioning bodies.
She imagined the reader discovering the letter and peeling the paper back from it’s folded state, the fibers crushed and crumbling, like so much lint. Would the words hold up over time? Would heartfelt sentiments translate well, or would the reader chuckle? These romantics, circa 2010, the reader would say, voice in digital monotone. How desperately they wanted to feel alive.
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mary june brown 