I found a stack of cedar planks in the corner that were still good. I wiped the dust off the workbench and plugged in the sander. I am going to build the most beautiful birdhouse my hands can manage.

I am going to pack it in a sturdy box along with a long, honest letter to a fifth-grader, answering all her questions.

And I am going to include a separate, sealed letter to David and Paul. I don’t know if they will ever forgive me. I don’t know if this birdhouse will ever hang in their backyard, or if it will go straight into the trash. But I am finally un-locking the door I slammed shut in 1991.

The return address is right here on the table. The wood is cut. The glue is drying. For the first time in thirty years, I am building something instead of tearing it down.