I opened the rejection letter without thinking.

I wrote the play over a year ago but the letter's contents were much older, drafted by some intern or artistic associate back when dinosaurs like Mac Wellman roamed the earth. I read the apology that came with compliments as if it were addressed to a stranger who shares my name. Indeed, so much had happened since I'd sent it - children conceived and born, friends and relatives given death sentences that are still playing out, cities lived in, jobs lost and found, careers bent unalterably - the letter was truly sent to someone else: a man who looked like me but would hardly be remembered but for photographs. Who was this playwright? And what was this play that did "not fit the needs of the theatre at this time"? Hmmm. I put the letter aside.

The baby was crying.