I’m still here in the house with all the stuff, so when I go through the household files and papers, I see his handwriting. I love him, so I get that pang.

Handwriting is like a face to me. If I got a letter from my best friend in middle school, I’d know it was from her right away, even though I haven’t snuck notes back and forth in class with her for over forty years. At work I file paperwork largely by handwriting.

If his handwriting says something cute or quirky, the pang is deeper. It feels sadder than the mushy cards notes. It feels like catching an endearing glimpse of someone who doesn’t know he’s being watched.

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