August 4, 2003
Circa 1999: “How was your day?” he would then proceed to tell me everything that happened in his; that he played with his dogs, or that he confronted the guy that borrowed his bike months ago, and had never returned it. Sometimes, he would send a funny picture instead of a daily missive. “I feel as if I’ve known you all of my life. Can I have a photo?” “Sure! I’m the brown one in the middle.” I never sent the photo. He stopped writing. Is not the depth of my soul more important than the shade of my skin?