Even after all these years, you can still make me smile. Damn you, you can still make me question whether I’m doing the right thing; whether I’m on the path I’m supposed to be on. I still remember sniffing your letters, trying to catch a whiff of you, but there was only the writing. And holding them cautiously, terrified I would sully them with my animal pawprints.
I still remember the swirls and loops of your spidery writing. Pages and pages of you writing to me, responding to me writing to you.
I kept them all, you know. They live in a shoebox. The most precious things live in shoeboxes.