Yesterday, I enjoyed the rarest of treats. A letter came for me in the mail.
How many years has it been since I opened an envelope to find simple, lined paper covered front and back with a voice I miss hearing? And make no mistake, the voice is perfectly clear in my mind as I decipher the hand.
Such an incredibly simple thing, yet all through the afternoon, I found myself reaching once more for the letter, reading through again, my heart aching with joy that seemed completely out of proportion with the single sheet of paper in my hand.
How have I forgotten the power of this?
I think of letters tucked away in boxes that I’ve saved for year upon year, now and then pulling out to pore over every line, to revisit friends, grandparents, people I will never see again. The color of the ink, the shape of each loop and curve as distinctive as the unique and much-loved author.
Such treasures these are to me! I want my children and my grandchildren to know this, to have this lasting and altogether different thing than any email or a text message.
Now, if you will excuse me, I have a few letters to write.