Two Little Letters Lately, my thoughts have wandered to the things we carry long after. The words left unspoken, the hurts left unresolved, and how I've wished *un* could be a way back. Unsaid. Undone. Unhurt. Two little letters I sometimes wished could wash a moment clean and leave it as it had been before. There are words I wish I'd left unspoken, things I thought I understood before I knew how much there was to understand. Even long ago, I questioned what remained unexplained, unaware of what was taking root beneath my search for answers. Years later, I am still unlearning what I never knew I'd learned. At first, I thought I was untying one knot. But one loosened thread led to another, old answers, old instincts, even the ways I'd learned to hold myself began quietly coming undone. I hadn't expected unlearning to feel so much like losing. Some of those knots once held me together, and I feel myself unravel as I loosen them. Though I know the untying helps, I still feel the weight of every knot. Some days, I welcome what comes undone. Other days, I mourn it. And sometimes, with tears I cannot explain, I find myself in the unfamiliar space it leaves, unable to untangle the sorrow from the relief— unsure whether I've found a little room to breathe or another knot, and the quiet ache of discovering there's still more to untie. And yet, somewhere in all this unlearning, I've begun to notice two more little letters. *Re.* Not a way to return to what was, but perhaps a way to begin with what remains. To relearn what I once misunderstood, to rediscover what grew quiet along the way, to revive what still has life within it, and rebuild with a gentleness I hadn't always known how to give. Perhaps even to restore something I thought was lost. I don't know what can be recovered, or what may have to grow into something new. Some days, the weight of it still hurts. But I find myself hoping, even here, that what has been *un*done might, in time, be *re*made.