I write this letter to myself, childless, aged 20. If however, the shoe fits, feel free to put it on and shove it somewhere nice and dark. With love of course.
There is a stone house at the end of our driveway. It is immaculate in every way. The grass is perfect, green, mowed. The trees are aligned. The gates are beautiful and detailed. The windows reveal fine glass and china and ornate picture frames. I haven’t been inside although I imagine it to be perfectly spotless and a perfect combination of neat and homely.