I received a letter in the mail the other day.
The moment I saw it I knew.
With a delicate but persistent rip, I cut open the envelope and was reaquainted with a familiar sheaf of yellow papers that I've thought about every so often but haven't seen since I gave them away.
It was a letter that I wrote to my boyfriend when I was just 15 and away on a summer road trip with my family.
It's funny what memory can do. I thought it was longer, I thought there was more.
But while only 3 pages long, I couldn't finish it.
I remember telling him, back then. Don't talk to me about it. I never want to talk about it.
He'd try to bring it up once in awhile and, no matter how gentle or quiet he was, I shut it down like a reflex. Quick, fast and final.
And now here it is, lying innocent on my desk, all these years later.
And still I can barely talk about it.