"I've been writing letters to keep busy," Muriel said, smiling sweetly and pointing to stacks of envelopes tied with red ribbon in neat little piles. "How wonderful!" her physical therapist said, admiring the work. "People will be THRILLED to get these!" "Oh, no, dear, they're not for mailing," Muriel explained, putting her cane off to the side carefully and allowing herself to be positioned on the portable treatment table. "They all start with 'If we don't survive, I want you to know ...' and are really meant to tidy up loose ends - say the heart things that need saying and all of that." "Awwww, I really think you should send them," the therapist urged softly, bending and extending. "It's so meaningful and you've put so much work into it ... " "True," Muriel admitted, "but I'm going to burn them. No one needs that much hate to arrive unexpected." The physical therapist paused, their eyes wide and sliding over to the stacks. There were hundreds of envelopes. Hundreds.
