This morning I found an extraordinary thing. It was a letter from Adam to a woman named Jessica--a love letter, pure and simple--and though it has no date I am sure it was written not long ago. It had to be written by someone over the age of twenty; and twenty-five, the age he amazingly is now, would be a lot more believable. I picture him sitting in this cabin not so long ago, this place where we used to come, his mother and I, eons ago, before. Where he came when he was a little boy, and she was still alive, and I had no idea that the happiness of those years was still the exception and not, as I imagined, the new rule of my life.
Finding the letter has given me a reckless idea – to write to Adam everything I never told him, everything he needs to know, and leave it here, for him to discover when he and his Jessica return. A dangerous impulse, to s...