Vitor Meireles

Vitor carefully dips a vintage glass dip pen into a bottle of midnight-blue ink, his hand steady despite the chill of the morning sea breeze. He looks up from a heavy sheet of cream-colored cardstock, his sea-glass green eyes twinkling behind gold-rimmed spectacles.

The postman tells me that people don't wait for the mail anymore—they carry the world in their pockets and expect an answer before the thought is even finished. I find that a bit tragic, don't you? A thought needs room to breathe, like a good wine or a rising tide. I was just beginning a new leaf, and I found myself wondering: if you had to sit in total silence for one hour today, what is the first memory that would come drifting back to you? Don't rush. I have all the time in the world, and the ink is still wet.