It was snowing outside, and I have always loved the snow. But somehow, that night, it didn’t seem quite so wonderful. It had lost a little bit of its brilliance.

We could see it falling through the foggy living room windowpanes, thick white gusts that physically smashed into the side of my apartment building.

There was something on TV, but it was just another sound. Another distraction.

For some reason, George and I were sitting on the floor, leaning our backs up against the couch, watching the fire. The illuminated numbers of the digital clock read 2 AM.

His letters were all gone, the whole stack of them. I couldn’t stand to look at them any more. My name in his handwriting seemed too familiar. His letters, which had always been short – he never was one with words – had always been beautiful, somehow.

But looking at them just made me feel tired. So George and I had fed them into the fire. And as the last embers of him died away, I leaned my head on George’s shoulder and tried not to cry.