I couple of months ago I was cleaning my office closet and found a box of saved letters. I went through them, reading quite a few in full. It was a fun distracting thing to do. Letters are a rare thing these days for most of us, even my grandmother emails and text messages me, instead of writing now, though she was not really much of a letter writer to begin with — notes in cards are her thing.
The letters in the largest pile were from a friend I went to school with in Tasmania. We became lost friend pen-pals once I moved. The letters were long, and read more like stories than letters, but they always ended with questions meant to be answered by a return letter. I always complied. I couldn’t remember if my return letters were long, though I couldn’t imagine them being short. I’m sure you know what I mean. We stopped writing and started emailing in or around 12th grade. We’ve following each through college and into grad school via the internet. I don’t have copies of her emails throughout the years, they of course got deleted. The real letter was dead, the written record of pieces of one’s life no more.
Her letters were beautifully written records of a time of life. After reading them, and because I was cleaning out things I no longer needed, I decided to place them in an attractive box. I then sent them to her, along with a letter. I thought she’d be glad to have them back, if for no other reason than as a record of that time in her life.
I couldn’t help but have a passing thought about the fate of my letters to her, though I didn’t expect they would have been kept. Who keeps letters unless they are from a lover. Except me of course. I hadn’t heard from her in some time, and had forgotten about the letters more or less.
When I returned home this evening I found a box on the table. The box contained my letters, and a letter.
Some things make you smile.
I sit here now mourning the obsolescent letter.
peace
