<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8" standalone="yes"?><rss version="2.0" xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom"><channel><title>Letters on Sunday Evening Review</title><link>https://sundayeveningreview.com/categories/letters/</link><description>Recent content in Letters on Sunday Evening Review</description><generator>Hugo</generator><language>en-us</language><lastBuildDate>Thu, 21 May 2026 06:00:00 -0500</lastBuildDate><atom:link href="https://sundayeveningreview.com/categories/letters/index.xml" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml"/><item><title>Since You Asked: The Conversation You Keep Putting Off</title><link>https://sundayeveningreview.com/letters/since-you-asked-the-conversation-you-keep-putting-off/</link><pubDate>Thu, 21 May 2026 06:00:00 -0500</pubDate><guid>https://sundayeveningreview.com/letters/since-you-asked-the-conversation-you-keep-putting-off/</guid><description>&lt;p>&lt;strong>Dear Lorraine,&lt;/strong>&lt;/p>
&lt;p>My father is 83 and still driving. He has a 2015 Chevrolet Malibu that he washes by hand every Saturday morning, which tells you something about what the car means to him. He lives alone in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, twelve miles from me, and he has driven himself to his cardiologist appointments, to his Thursday bowling league, and to the Giant on Route 378 every week for thirty-five years. He knows the checkout staff by name. He knows the butcher.&lt;/p></description></item></channel></rss>