QUOTE : She reaches in and pulls out the carved white marble box. My box of secrets. It has been years since she’s seen this box, though she could still sketch it from memory. It too looks smaller than she remembers. She wipes off a layer of dust and leaves her hand there for a moment, on the cool surface. She realizes she’s holding her breath, draws it in deeply, and opens the box. She unfolds the first letter inside, a small rectangular piece of faint pink stationery. Slowly, she reads the words written there in familiar childlike script: Dear Mom, Today my teacher asked our class to write a letter to someone in another country. My father told me you are in India, but he doesn’t know your address. I am nine years old and in the fourth grade. I wanted to write you a letter to tell you I would like to meet you one day. Do you want to meet me? Your daughter, Asha The raw display of sentiment makes her cringe. She feels tears prick at the back of her eyes and the slow flood of emotions she has not experienced in a long time.