So, those French letters, if you laid them all out on a bed – a king-size bed, say, line after line. What would they say?
They might start with how we were cautious, how we cared enough to bear the blush produced when near-strangers discuss the practicalities of sex. They might continue to say silly things – strawberry flavoured jokes that tip you into bed.
That gap there, the little space big enough to make a child. The absence makes me smile. And now?
The letters continue, fewer, maybe, but no less urgent. No less wonderful. And always, always sent with love.