The Delivery Confirmation I Keep Refreshing on a Letter I Mailed My Estranged Brother I mailed the letter nine days ago, handwritten, three pages long, the first honest thing I have said to my brother in six years. We stopped speaking after our father's funeral, over things that felt enormous then and look smaller every year I carry them. I finally wrote it all down last week, the apology I owed him and the parts I still think he owes me, sealed it, and walked it to the mailbox myself instead of leaving it for the carrier, as if that mattered. Then I came home, pulled up the tracking number on my phone, and have checked it probably forty times since. Delivered to mailbox on Tuesday. That is all it says. It cannot tell me whether he opened it, whether he threw it away unread, whether he is sitting with it the way I sat writing it. The not knowing has moved into my chest and set up residence there, and I keep refreshing a page that has nothing left to tell me, hoping the checking...