I rush to the post office the next day. I unlock the small PO box, and it’s packed full of postcards and letters, all smashed together like a small earthquake must have shaken them into one big mass. I can’t peel them apart fast enough—he’s written to me on pieces of scrap paper, postcards, takeout menus. He’s mailed them from cities in Mexico, and there are a thousand sorries, a thousand love letters, a thousand reasons to love him again. There have been the times he tells me he loves me, but here is the proof that I can keep forever. I can highlight the lines and shout them at him during a
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