The Sunday letter · Mara LinIssue 01081522283337404345474848
Afterword.
Opening the journal
Letters
Letters I never sent
Five drafts from a drawer, finally read out loud.
- KindLetters
- DateAug 17, 2026
- Read time8 min
Letters
Letters I never sent
Five drafts from a drawer, finally read out loud.
- KindLetters
- DateAug 17, 2026
- Read time8 min
Letters
Letters I never sent
Five drafts from a drawer, finally read out loud.
- KindLetters
- DateAug 17, 2026
- Read time8 min
LettersAug 17, 20268 min read
I keep the letters I do not send in the second drawer of my desk. There are more of them than I expected. This year, for the first time, I opened the drawer and read five of them out loud, alone, in the kitchen, with the door closed.
To a teacher
The first was to my secondary school English teacher, a quiet man who once wrote in the margin of an essay: this sentence is true, keep going. I wrote to thank him fifteen years later and never posted it, because I could not find his address and then, somehow, stopped looking. Reading it now, it is mostly a list of books he lent me. That feels right. That was the whole of what he gave me, and it was a great deal.
To a city
The second was to a city, which sounds dramatic but was not. I had lived in it for three years and left in a hurry, and I wrote it a letter on the train, apologising for not saying goodbye properly to the bakery, the park and the woman at the laundrette who always folded my shirts better than I did.
“A letter you never send still does its work. It just does it on you instead of on the person you wrote to.
To a friend
The third was the hardest. It was to a friend I had lost touch with, not through any argument, only through the slow drift of two busy lives. I had written it three times and never finished. Reading it aloud, I realised it was not finished because it did not need a reply. It needed a phone call.
I made the call that evening. We spoke for two hours.
To myself, twice
The last two were to myself: one written at twenty-two, one at thirty. They disagree about almost everything. The younger one is sure she will live abroad and never own furniture. The older one has just bought a desk and is very proud of it.
I put all five back in the drawer. I am not ready to throw them away, and I am no longer sure that throwing them away is the point. They are a record of the things I meant to say. Some of them, it turns out, I still can.
— Mara
All essays
LettersAug 17, 20268 min read
I keep the letters I do not send in the second drawer of my desk. There are more of them than I expected. This year, for the first time, I opened the drawer and read five of them out loud, alone, in the kitchen, with the door closed.
To a teacher
The first was to my secondary school English teacher, a quiet man who once wrote in the margin of an essay: this sentence is true, keep going. I wrote to thank him fifteen years later and never posted it, because I could not find his address and then, somehow, stopped looking. Reading it now, it is mostly a list of books he lent me. That feels right. That was the whole of what he gave me, and it was a great deal.
To a city
The second was to a city, which sounds dramatic but was not. I had lived in it for three years and left in a hurry, and I wrote it a letter on the train, apologising for not saying goodbye properly to the bakery, the park and the woman at the laundrette who always folded my shirts better than I did.
“A letter you never send still does its work. It just does it on you instead of on the person you wrote to.
To a friend
The third was the hardest. It was to a friend I had lost touch with, not through any argument, only through the slow drift of two busy lives. I had written it three times and never finished. Reading it aloud, I realised it was not finished because it did not need a reply. It needed a phone call.
I made the call that evening. We spoke for two hours.
To myself, twice
The last two were to myself: one written at twenty-two, one at thirty. They disagree about almost everything. The younger one is sure she will live abroad and never own furniture. The older one has just bought a desk and is very proud of it.
I put all five back in the drawer. I am not ready to throw them away, and I am no longer sure that throwing them away is the point. They are a record of the things I meant to say. Some of them, it turns out, I still can.
— Mara
All essaysLettersAug 17, 20268 min read
I keep the letters I do not send in the second drawer of my desk. There are more of them than I expected. This year, for the first time, I opened the drawer and read five of them out loud, alone, in the kitchen, with the door closed.
To a teacher
The first was to my secondary school English teacher, a quiet man who once wrote in the margin of an essay: this sentence is true, keep going. I wrote to thank him fifteen years later and never posted it, because I could not find his address and then, somehow, stopped looking. Reading it now, it is mostly a list of books he lent me. That feels right. That was the whole of what he gave me, and it was a great deal.
To a city
The second was to a city, which sounds dramatic but was not. I had lived in it for three years and left in a hurry, and I wrote it a letter on the train, apologising for not saying goodbye properly to the bakery, the park and the woman at the laundrette who always folded my shirts better than I did.
“A letter you never send still does its work. It just does it on you instead of on the person you wrote to.
To a friend
The third was the hardest. It was to a friend I had lost touch with, not through any argument, only through the slow drift of two busy lives. I had written it three times and never finished. Reading it aloud, I realised it was not finished because it did not need a reply. It needed a phone call.
I made the call that evening. We spoke for two hours.
To myself, twice
The last two were to myself: one written at twenty-two, one at thirty. They disagree about almost everything. The younger one is sure she will live abroad and never own furniture. The older one has just bought a desk and is very proud of it.
I put all five back in the drawer. I am not ready to throw them away, and I am no longer sure that throwing them away is the point. They are a record of the things I meant to say. Some of them, it turns out, I still can.
— Mara
All essays