The Guard Asked Who They Were Here to See

you those years back,” he said.

“No,” I said. “You can’t.”

He nodded.

Then he reached into his coat pocket and held out a folded envelope. Not dramatic. Plain cream paper. My name written on it in his old block handwriting.

“Your mother made me write it,” he said. “She said if I was going to speak, I needed to do it where I couldn’t pretend later that continue reading …