By Heidi Croot

On a sunny October afternoon last year, my 33-year-old cousin told me his recovery program involved group writing, and he’d written a love letter to his recently deceased parents.

I recognized the writer’s eternal plea and asked if I could read it.

He literally galloped into the house to find his notebook.

We stood under the fall canopy of reds, greens and golds—his sister, grandmother and me—and listened to him read aloud, a lanky six-foot-four boy on the cusp of discovering his talent, shy, eyes down, yet lit with pride.

Moving in its honesty, we told him, and we repeated phrases that had stirred us, marvelling at his willingness to be vulnerable.

Was his piece polished for publication? Of course not. It was raw, tender, molten with grief. He had trusted his…

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