One more batch of mail in that envelope - and when I opened the 45-year-old envelope which holds them (and it's the exact same kind of 9x6 brown paper envelope that I use today) I find that they are letters sent TO him. Some of them from me. I don't know why I have them. I would think perhaps he sent all mine back to me, but I don't think so, and there's no reason that he would have sent me a letter from his Aunt Edith.

I'll start with them tomorrow. Perhaps there are some answers in my own writing to the questions I have today.

There aren't too many questions left, actually. The only question I can think of is perhaps what the question was all along. Who was I? And have I found me yet?