Your handwriting leaps from the page and your remembered voice is instantly in my ear. I have to pace myself and only read one or two of your letters that live in a box in my upstairs room. Or else my heart clenches with loss and longing. And the unclenching takes longer than I’d like to admit. As your echo-voice reads me the last letter you wrote, my heart pangs with the sad reality — there will be no more.
your perfect cursive
slanted ever so slightly
just like mine
