Dear St. Louis,

I'm finally writing about you.

I reread that old email - the one that I almost died over, that hurt so terribly and felt impossibly cruel - the one about my story. And I laughed a little. Oh, poor heart. I was so afraid I could hear nothing but rejection in everything you said. Oh, the sleep I lost.

And oh, poor you, a little careless, a little too sharp and I was sent spinning for months, licking my wounds.

Which is to say sometimes time does ease up a little on that hurt. Which is to say, I'm sorry.

I'll send this off into nothing, into air, into the hands of other people who will carry it around for me and spread the good news of time, wrinkles, grey hair and heart disease.