to　see　what　I'd　said　because　I　was　afraid　cowardice　would　make　me　stop。　I　didn't　stop；　and　when　a　voice　in　my　head　clamored　that　it　would　be　madness　to　mail　such　a　letter；　that　I　would　be　giving　her　my　naked　heart　to　hold　in　her　hand；　I　ignored　it　with　a　child's　breathless　disregard　of　the　consequences。　I　often　wondered　if　Janice　kept　that　letter；　but　never　quite　got　up　enough　courage　to　ask。　All　I　know　for　sure　is　that　I　did　not　find　it　when　I　went　through　her　things　after　the　funeral；　and　of　course　that　by　itself　means　nothing。　I　suppose　I　never　asked　because　I　was　afraid　of　discovering　that　burning　epistle　meant　less　to　her　than　it　did　to　me。

It　was　four　pages　long；　I　thought　I　would　never　write　anything　longer　in　my　life；　and　now　look　at　this。　All　this；　and　the　end　still　not　in　sight。　If　I'd　known　the　story　was　going　to　go　on　this　long；　I　might　never　have　started。　What　I　didn't　realize　was　how　many　doors　the　act　of　writing　unlocks；　as　if　my　Dad's　old　fountain　pen　wasn't　really　a　pen　at　all；　but　some　strange　variety　of　skeleton　key。　The　mouse　is　probably　the　best　example　of　what　I'm　talking　about　…　Steamboat　Willy；　Mr。　Jingles；　the　mouse　on　the　Mile。　Until　I　started　to　write；　I　never　realized　how　important　he　（yes；　he）　was。　The　way　he　seemed　to　be　looking　for　Delacroix　before　Delacroix　arrived；　for　instance　…　I　don't　think　that　ever　occurred　to　me；　not　to　my　conscious　mind；　anyway；　until　I　began　to　write　and　remember。

I　guess　what　I'm　saying　is　that　I　didn't