Dear Writer,

Your mother visited, did you know that? She is worried because she says you are covered in typewriter ink. I told her I was sure you were okay--that maybe it was the squid from our epicurious dinner the other night?--because you do not use a typewriter and have not for years. I reminded her after Charles passed away you never wanted to type long hand again.

I wanted to write you tonight because I can’t stop thinking about you. Being around your mother, the only person in the world who might love you as much as I do, reminds me of this. The look clouding her eyes when she imagines there might be a foreign substance hurting you, obstructing your ways to breathe, felt like my own eyes were turning opaque. My skin was pricked, sprayed, sullied. I felt responsible for you lugging...

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