Dear Laura By now, you are forty-four years old. I remember that age. I was near that age when I first met Bobby, and first saw you. Now I am an old man, and time has not been good to me. I am sorry I didn’t write before. I was put away for something I did. Locked up like an animal, by people who don’t understand what real feelings are. People don’t know love, not the way I do. Society judges me instead. I couldn’t write from prison. I couldn’t risk them finding out about Bobby. He is our secret, isn’t he? So I stopped writing, for his sake. It was agony for me. But I thought about you every
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