I sat on the bed and picked up one of the sealed letters. The postmark said April. Four years ago.
I opened it.
Hey buddy, it started. It’s your dad. I know it’s been a long time. I don’t know if your mom is giving you these, and if she isn’t, that’s okay. She’s probably right not to. She’s always been the smart one. But I’m going to keep writing anyway, because they say in here that you’re supposed to write to the people you hurt, even if they never read it.
Today I want to tell you about the first time I skated. I was six. My dad took me to Mirror Lake…
It went on for four pages. Stories. Little things. The name of his first coach. The time he scored a goal on his own team. A joke about a penguin that wasn’t very funny. At the bottom of the last page, he’d written: I’m sorry I’m not there. I’m sorry for a lot of things. I hope you’re still skating. I love you. Dad.
