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On the thirty-seventh day of waiting, she finally climbed the maple tree behind her house, the one with the hollow like a secret. Sitting cross-legged in the crook, she took out the little blue recorder she kept for emergencies and pressed play. A voice — her own, younger and steadier — began to read the list she'd whispered into nights for years: names of places she swore she'd go, apologies she owed, dances she never learned.

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I was looking through the analytics today, and I realized just how many of you stick around for every single post. This one is —meaning, if you're reading this, you are part of the inner circle. On the thirty-seventh day of waiting, she finally