I watch, in the mirror, as Rodrigo writes as quickly as he can. I cannot read the exact words, but I know what he’s writing, and it has the hair on the back of my neck standing up. I step forward to his shoulder, and though he keeps writing, he lets me read the pertinent section, before he is folding the document and passing it to Felice, who is next to sit before the mirror, as she begins the ritual to send it away.
I know this ritual. I know that my family usually cast it by a mirror. And I remember how many times I, too, sat by a mirror, and told it who I was, and prayed that my family would send me a letter of hope. Maybe they had. I wish I had received them.