On Writing a Letter I Never Really Sent – After “Dear Mr. Brockett” By Nicole Callihan from issue 295.1

A dozen years ago, I lived in a high-rise that overlooked the gaping hole where the World Trade Center had, only the year before, stood. It sometimes occurred to me that if the towers were still there, I wouldn’t have so much light, but I loved the light anyway.

It was a company apartment, which is to say: my husband’s boss and his wife and their toddler watched as people held hands and jumped from the burning buildings, and kept watching, until finally they realized they should grab the gun and the jewelry and all their money and climb down thirty-nine flights of stairs to get the HELL out of Manhattan. They picked me up in Brooklyn, and we headed to the Hamptons where, courtesy of Y2K, they had prepared so well for the end of the world that we had enough batteries and canned beans to last us until the reckoning.

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