Beside my bed, there sits a brown basket filled with letters. Any time I get a piece of mail with a handwritten note, it goes in my basket. An all-to-rare occurence in this day of emails and text messages, but I digress (and wow, do I sound old).
Today, I was cleaning, and I gathered up a pile of letters that have accumulated over the past year, and put them in my basket. As my fingers brushed against those worn envelopes, I decided to look through them. Two hours later, I sat on my bed, surrounded by cards and envelopes, my face wet with tears.
Those letters tell the story of my life. There are the letters from my first summer working at camp. Postcards from my friend’s travels. Notes of encouragement when I lost my job. Sympathy cards when my stepdad died. Scrawled notes on napkins. Elaborate Christmas cards.
They are my history. They span ten years. Eight addresses. Some are from family members I talk to every week. Others from friends who I haven’t spoken with in years.
I miss getting letters. I miss writing letters. Heck, I even miss licking stamps. (I’m weird, I know).
So tonight, although my body was screaming at me to go to bed, I pulled out my stationary and wrote a few letters. And tomorrow, I plan to write some more. Maybe I’ll even get a few to put in my basket.