I just wrote my dumb letter for 2020. I do this exercise in futility every year, hoping for a different outcome every time. I spend days carefully crafting each sentence, replacing words if they seem too direct, too demanding, too pathetic. I reread it and sit with it for weeks, too afraid to put my pen on paper to actually write it. I dig out my archival-ink Sharpie, purchased specifically for writing these dumb letters because it will never fade, even if she doesn’t see them for years. I write a shopping list on scrap paper to get the ink flowing and to prepare my fingers, used to typing, for the task of penning an entire letter. A few more days pass before I find the paper tablet, chosen because the pages tear cleanly from the top; no risk of immature-looking imperfect perforation tears down the sides of pages. And finally, I write.
This year, in full 2020 essence, I ask the big question: “that you consider who I am now, as evidenced by my letters over the past several years, and reconsider keeping our adoption closed.”
Will this be the year that they read my letter? Will this be the year that they change their minds? Will this be the year that they let me in? Most likely not. But I can’t know for certain until I ask.