I remember as a child I loved to hide in my mother's closet, way in the back, near the shelves in the corner. I'd pull a worn shoe box from the lowest shelf and carefully open the lid. I'd run my fingers through the stack of old letters contained inside, cards of condolence from my grandmother's death, letters from my uncle who lived far away, and the most fun of all - cards of congratulations from the year of my adoption.I'd open the cards and letters, slowly read the words, wondering about the people who'd written them, what was going on in there lives so many years ago, and their connection to my parents. The smell of old paper filled the closet. I'd admire the stamps, wishing I could ask for them for my stamp collection. But then I'd have to admit to my mother that I'd gone through her personal letters and worse, she'd discover my favorite hideout.
As a teenager, I dated a young man who was away in the military. We wrote to each other most every day. I'll never forget the rush of emotion I'd get when I opened the mailbox to find an envelope with his handwriting or the let down when nothing was there. I kept those letters, in chronological order (obsessive, I know) for many years and he kept mine. It was a record, of sorts, of our young lives.When I lived away from home I wrote faithfully to my parents. My mother kept them all, and I know, experienced the same rush as I did when she'd discover a long letter from me narrating my latest adventures as a new mother.
I don't write much anymore, a card here, a note there. She misses my ramblings about what I cooked for dinner and my most recent adventure to the beach. She misses the details. I talk to her on the phone but it's not the same. She doesn't have a computer so email is out.
And it's email that is the problem. It's taken over. I don't write anyone, anymore, unless it's digitally. I guess that counts but I wonder what will be left behind. Nothing but electronic archives, files of digital code, nothing tangible like the smell of old paper and the look of my uncles compact handwriting, his expressions of love for his little sister.
I bought a pack of artistic paper and rose colored envelopes over a month ago. I'd been thinking about letter writing and digital photos and how in this age of technology I miss holding something "real" in my hands - flipping through tattered pages and sorting old photos into stacks.
My challenge is to brighten one person's day with a letter, a tangible letter they can touch, smell, fold and put away for safe keeping. I think it will be to my mother, yes, another new one finally, to add to her box.
Who's waiting on a letter from you?
