Dear letter writers,
You have been coming to my house for weeks now, in trickles at first and then in floods as the deadline got closer. My mailman must be so confused; it’s been all Cooking Light and utility bills until now.
I took the first five of you to a coffee shop, and I fell in love with you at once. You were raw, and it all felt a little sacred, getting a little piece of you sent so hopefully, two pages or less. I couldn’t stop thinking about you all week.
I don’t know if it’s just that you were my first loves, but the first five of you were my favorites.
And then more of you showed up, 296 of you, and I found myself wanting to cherry pick six letters to “receive,” just so I could have you as a pen pal; Mr. Wales, guy from Tennessee, lady from Portland. But then it didn’t feel right, like hand picking kids in gym class for a dodgeball team; my team of pen pals. So, instead, I thought I’d write to all of you.
I want to tell you a few things; things about each other, things about what you 296 decided to tell six perfect strangers.