Her letter lies unopened on the kitchen table. Since I don’t know what it says, it could say almost anything. This remains true until the moment I open it, when all possibilities dissolve into a single reality. Right now I don’t want that moment to come, despite the fact that my last thought before opening the mailbox was how much I wanted her letter to be there.
One hears of people who avoid certain medical tests for fear they may have the disease. They do this despite the fact that such tests do not and cannot change the facts: one either does or does not have the disease. Similarly her letter already says what it says, whether I read it or not.
At the moment I begin to read her words, I enter an unknown room, one in which nearly anything is possible, although some things are more possible than others. For now I sit outside that room, in a kind of waiting area, readying myself.