“By writing this, knowing  that there was a chance he'd read it, i was up to my old tricks. Was I not sending an open letter hoping for some kind of response, in return?”

“Someone has been trying to send me a message for weeks—my car keys missing, pyramids of coins stacked neatly in corners, lamps turned on I know I’ve shut off, toast crumbs on the counter make the profile of a face.The scuttling in the attic does not sound animal—when I climb up there’s old insulation, inches of dust and this heaviness I can’t shake.If I could mail one letter to the dead, it would be a chain letter—Send this to the ten people you loved the most— to see if it returned to me.”

“Darling,You asked me to write you a letter, so I am writing you a letter. I do not know why I am writing you this letter, or what this letter is supposed to be about, but I am writing it nonetheless, because I love you very much and trust that you have some good purpose for having me write this letter. I hope that one day you will have the experience of doing something you do not understand for someone you love.Your father”

“That night I sat up writing in my diary writing to Big Me: 'I hope you are alive ' I wrote. 'I hope that I don't die before you are able to read this.”

“A letter to send to you and if I forget, or god forbid die too soon, hope that you'll hear me,know that I wrote to you.”

“And here I am, instead of there. I'm sitting in this library, thousands of miles from my life, writing another letter I know I won't be able to send, no matter how hard I try and how much I want to. How did that boy making love behind that shed become this man writing this letter at this table?”