I love to give and receive letters. A letter objectifies sentiment at a particular moment in time, and what’s captured remains in the possession of its owner. What a privilege on both ends!
For whatever reason I worry about the potential intermingling of imagination and memory [close friends will roll their eyes here]—but I’m nagged by an idea that recollection over time degrades the truth of a moment, if such a thing exists.
I’m touched by the permanence of written correspondence between two people, and of letter-writing as a medium to revisit distinct moments in your life, and in the lives of others.
Below is the last letter that I wrote to someone; presumably they still own it.
Hanna McKinley is a writer living in Paris. She has held roles in publishing and as a policy consultant at the OECD and in the private sector.

