I think, it was a few days after they had closed down the old post office building, that I found the letter that I had written down for myself and posted to my address. It was still unopened when I found it… unopened and forgotten. I’d rather talk about other things though, like the juicy orange that I relished later that afternoon in the blissful shade of the beautiful silver oak… the silver oak… they cut him down… they said he was getting too big for the piece of land… whatever that means… I was hardly convinced. Why couldn’t the silver oak have been around to listen to me play the guitar under his shade… why couldn’t the silver oak have been alive to be in my story… so I could relish that orange under his shade… so I could spend the rest of my life hugging him… It was a warm afternoon and my friend the oak was singing me a sweet lullaby. I fell asleep… slept like I’d never been awake… woke up to find the unopened envelope gone… never got to read the letter… I stand in front of the mirror, confronting my reflection… sometimes I find my shadow to be more to my liking… I’ve met some other people who are like that… they stand in front of the mirror and think fondly about their shadows… they don’t open the letters they wrote to themselves… they could spend the rest of their lives hugging a tree… I couldn’t sleep that night though. Where was the letter I had written to myself? Who was the face in the mirror?