I shimmer above and just below the waterline. there's an island that I've boated to. the water glows to its depth around it, and its trees reflect in the surface of the water and into its currents, and there reflected is the house that is - was - owned by my parents, empty now, and sold on, but still inviting. will I approach? a woman, a friend and keeper of the island, has spoken vaguely but warmly - maybe in welcome, maybe just in the pleasure of being an islander herself. maybe there's a key, or nothing's locked. I'm not sure I even need to go into the house,

I bring a pile of letters with me. some are still in their envelopes, some I've already read, weeks or even months ago, unfortunately without answering or knowing how to.

Few are from my clients or former clients. Most come to me because of the word of mouth;  it's become known in the city that I answer letters, and that i turn no one away.