6.24 Make Inferences Worksheet

At the end of the semester we were asked to write a note to our future selves. Most people used markers and added exclamation points. I wrote mine in pencil, faint and careful: Remember the feeling of almost speaking. Then I erased the sentence until only a gray shadow remained. When the teacher collected the envelopes, I sealed mine anyway. It felt like mailing an empty box—heavy, not because of what was inside, but because of what I couldn’t put there.

My brother and I found the letter in a cookbook no one used. It was addressed to my mother, dated before I was born. My brother wanted to read it out loud. I didn’t—not because I respect privacy more than he does, though I pretended that was the reason—but because the paper looked tired, the edges softened as if it had been opened and closed too many times. My mother came in and saw us holding it. She didn’t ask what it said. She asked, “Is the oven still on?” and began turning knobs that weren’t lit, checking temperatures that weren’t there.

The first snow always makes our street look honest—every footprint visible, every shortcut exposed. This year I watched from my window as my neighbor Mrs. Rhee swept her steps again and again, even though the snow kept falling. Her broom moved like a metronome. When I offered to help, she said, “No, thank you,” without turning around. The next day her steps were perfectly clean, but the rest of the walkway was untouched. A narrow path led from her door to the street, as if she had tunneled through the weather rather than defeated it.