* * * *
The box contains more than just letters. In some ways, it’s the sum total of another lifetime he could’ve had if he’d said something different on that fateful day so many years ago. In it, he keeps pictures, too, as well as a couple of programs, a coaster from a bar in Phoenix, a cassette tape he can’t even play anymore. It used to house CDs, but he moved those to the shelves in the living room to live amongst the rest of his music. Not that he owns much. He likes it, but his escape comes in sunshine and soil.
His favorite photos are older, before technology turned the tangible into pixels that don’t exist outside of their digital world. He doesn’t own a printer, and he didn’t even own a smartphone until a few years ago, so there’s a black hole of memories that are gone to him be
