Not all of them. I wasn't ready for all of them.
There was a birthday letter from when I turned ten. My mother had written: I imagine you today. I try every year. I count the candles in my head. I wonder if someone makes you cake. I hope someone makes you cake.
There was a letter from what must have been a bad week, undated, the handwriting less even than usual: I am so angry today. I need you to know that. Not at you. Never at you. At the specific people who did this and at every day that passes and at the distance between where I am and wherever you are. I'm going to write it down in a letter to you instead of doing something I can't take back. This is what writing to you is for. You are the person I say the true things to even when you can't hear them.
I read that one twice.
Then I
