How to Really Write a Love Letter
When I opened the first letter you ever sent me, I was fifteen and the snow was chest high in that village up in the Quebec mountains where I tried to learn how to ski and speak French and make poutine, all of which I only mangled.
I tore open into your envelope right there at the post office.
I read your lines five times walking the snow piled streets back to the school, my mouth agape, a door swinging wide open in surprise, the bitter blue February burning my lungs.
You had sent me words.
Over twenty years I have kept your shy lines, the years I have kept your sons and your daughters, the years you have kept me.