A few months ago I was talking about a woman who had died. “The worst part,” her closer friend shares with me, “is that her kids keep on asking me if I have a letter or a note from her for them - and I keep on having to say no.”
So here we go, my winter project, write letters to my children. Just in case. Why not?
Letters for their birthdays, letters when they graduate from college/run away from home/join a cult, letters when they get married. Letter when it is a random Tuesday in March 2042 to tell them I love them.
You never know in this life. Isn’t the idea of doing this now, in health, with facilities intact, without the cancer industrial complex breathing down my neck, make it seem more of a gift than a chore?
I think so. I feel so. I know so.