It occurs to me now, just one day after finishing your letter--the letter for you, not one I wrote as you, as in a facade--that, perhaps, you'll never come across its resting place. The internet is an awfully big home, after all.
So no hard feelings should you not find it. It's there, germinating, waiting for a gentle tap, a welcoming brush, a hand to help along.
And, perhaps, the followup letter serves no purpose but to aide in my own uncertainty. My own needy griping for connection. And for that I apologize. I wish no selfish thought for this letter.
But absolution does not just find its way to fruition. It works, like roots, deep and powerful to the core of the earth before summoning the strength to build up and out and into the world.
Wherever it exists, it rests. And in rest, we wait. We wait. We wait. We wait.