Write the one they'll still have in thirty years. We'll keep it sealed until they come asking for it.
Thursday, late · posted from a kitchen table
I keep starting this on the backs of receipts, which should tell you something about how often I'm thinking it.
You asked me once what I'd say if I had more room. This is the room.
No reply needed. I just wanted it written down somewhere that isn't my head.
— always, and then some
Not one of them is a grand declaration. They're small, specific and completely undeniable — which is why they're worth sealing.
"I still make two cups. I've stopped pretending it's a mistake."
"You laugh with your whole face. I'd forgotten people did that."
"Nothing happened today. I wanted to tell you about it anyway."
"Thirty-one years. I'd do the whole thing again, just slower."
"I'm not asking you for anything. I needed it written down by someone who meant it."
"Come home safe. That's the whole letter."
No feed, no profile, no audience. One letter, one reader, and all the time in the world to get it right.
No account. No name unless you sign it. Take as long as you want — nothing leaves until you press the wax.
Encrypted the moment you're done, with a key we don't hold. From then on it's unreadable to us, which is the only honest way to promise nobody else reads it.
For a day, or for eleven years. We never nudge them and we never chase you. A letter that isn't ready isn't late.
Their address, a six-character key posted to it, and the seal breaks — once. No second opening, so they'll read it the way you meant it to be read.
Give us the address someone would have used. If something's here, we'll post you a six-character key to open it with.
We'll only answer yes or no. We won't say who it's from, when it was written, or whether you've been sent one before — and we don't keep the question either.
Somebody would keep this forever. Go and write it.