A suitcase at my 92-year-old grandmother's house contains hundreds of letters, carefully stacked in rubber-banded bundles. Their onion-skin layers hidden from the light, ink as fresh as when it was first laid down.
Many have not been reopened for 50 years or more; too painful to look at, too precious to throw away. Their contents remain in a state of repressed limbo, a one-sided and silent dialogue, they lie in wait.
What, and where, will the 'suitcase of memory' be, that our grandchildren open?