There, my lord.

If someone compelled me to break up with someone I loved and insisted I return his letters, I think those letters would feel hot in my hand. I’d know I had to give them away – something has convinced me that it must be done – but if I’d experienced those letters with all the love and sweetness, if I’d cherished them, if I’d slept with them under my pillow, smelled them, run my fingers over them, wrapped them up in ribbon to be assured none would be lost, I’m not sure I could surrender them without a little internal fight.
My hand might be offering them, but I might not loose my fingers quite enough to let them go or I might offer them in such a way that brought them closer to me, rather than far away. Or I might turn away as I offered them, hoping not to witness their loss. I might, in fact, not offer them up honestly. I couldn’t. Not if I loved them.


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