The last page of her cookbook.
My mother wrote in the margins of everything. Shopping lists, phone numbers, the backs of receipts. I used to find it untidy.
Personal letters. Ordinary lives. The things we carry, and the moments that bring us closer.

There’s a little of
all of us in a letter.
A letter from SamOregon, United States
For six months, I ate dinner standing at the kitchen counter. Then my neighbor knocked and asked to borrow a chair.
For six months after I moved, I ate dinner standing at the kitchen counter. I told myself it was because the table was covered in boxes. The boxes were empty.
Warmly,My mother wrote in the margins of everything. Shopping lists, phone numbers, the backs of receipts. I used to find it untidy.
I was fifty-eight on my first day of swimming lessons. The other adults arrived with matching goggles and caps. Mine were borrowed from my grandson and had a small shark on the side.
My oldest friend and I ran out of things to talk about sometime in February. We had been calling every Tuesday since she moved. Eventually we were reporting what we had eaten for lunch.
Open an envelope and meet someone you might never have found.

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