Sorry, I didn’t mean to write all of that.
It was just that the photo’s and then the letters prompted memories and when I started it just felt better out than in somehow.
That’s a lie too. The truth is, (and I don’t know whether this rings any bells with anyone else?), but ‘memories’ is the wrong word. It feels removed, as if I’ve watched a film or read a book that’s affected me, as if somehow it wasn’t really me who was there, I was just a spectator.
I don’t think I shall read the letters, they’re open but they were obviously deeply personal and private in their time and it would feel like an intrusion. There’s a selfish reason too, I don’t want to find out that there is any more hurt available from that time, I thought we’d already wrung out every last drop.
(Thanks by the way, you know who you are).