Before my late father, Lomax, lost his mind completely, he was an avid collector of antique letters, 200 year old certificates and forms, and many ancient postage stamps. One of his favorite pastimes was tracking down the descendants of the letter writers and sending the letters back to them. Imagine someone reaching out to tell you they had letters your ancestors wrote to each other in 1817.

My dad always told us kids, “You have to have hobbies.” When he stopped his, his mental health declined quickly. Before he could throw out his collection, I took it.

One of my hobbies is drawing. I love sketching over the old letters, on the backs of the tissue like envelopes, and antiquated documents—hundreds of them, some as delicate as dragonfly wings. Inked penmanship loops across the pages, written before telephones existed. Love letters sent back and forth. Mentions of someone’s death, woven into everyday correspondence.

When I unfold a letter and sit quietly drawing on it, I find myself between walls, where whispers from timelines mix into inaudible notes just for me. I’ve been playing with ghosts since childhood.