My father sighed and said, “You really need to let a bit more of the world in.”

The optician took off his glasses, looked at my father, and said, “That’s exactly what we’re doing.”

After he’d heard about Selma’s dream and told anyone who would listen that he didn’t believe in it at all, the optician put on his best suit, which was getting bigger with each passing year, picked up a stack of unfinished letters, which was also getting bigger with each passing year, and stuffed them into his large leather bag.

He set out for Selma’s house. He could have walked there backward with his eyes closed: he had gone to her house every day for decades (though not wearing his best suit or carrying the stack of unfinished letters, but always carrying deep inside the secret love that now wanted to slip out of him at what could well be the very last minute).

As he strode toward Selma’s house, his heart drummed loudly in his rib cage, beating in time with the secret truth as the leather bag bumped his hip at every step. The leather bag full of