Letter of the Week
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When I was a child, winter quilts turned to mountains in my father’s armsas he heaved them out of an icy silver glacier of a trunk.They became snow white hills spread across the bedas I jumped and glided over them, squealing with joy.How big the tables looked as I hid beneath them,pretending they were caverns
About the Archivist
This is a curated selection of letters that left a mark on the world, on someone’s life, or just in the margins of time.
Each is transcribed with care and respect for the medium that first carried it: the typewritten page.
Uhi K; 