Letter Dear

Dear Handwritten Letter,

You have had quite a long and revered history, which is ironic because presently your future is uncertain.  The fast paced communication of today like e-mail, social media and instant messaging have all, but snuffed out your existence.  I can’t quite let you go.

 We have been through too much together.  You’ve seen me through loves lost.  Remember those tears I cried when I learned he had another? My loneliness extinguished as I collected thread after thread of lines that bound me together in strength following the loss of my parents.  Those kind words saved for when I needed it most. That is how a broken heart began to heal.

  I learned of the ordinary day to day nuances experienced by my grandmother while I was away, and I realized that there are no ordinary moments, just extraordinary moments. Words brought me to her, to her day when she dined on bran cereal, two slices of lightly buttered toast on whole grain bread and black coffee.  The consistency of my grandmother’s predictability, chronicled in her impeccable slant of cursive read once, and re-read and re-read again comforted me in my loneliness.  My grandmother long passed, now precious moments preserved within you.

On one of my darkest days, you mysteriously dropped at my feet, a bundle tied in satin ribbon, the recipient my mother, the sender my father.  My hands trembled as I untied the ribbon. Holding the first envelope lightly between my fingers, I examined my father’s perfect penmanship each line uniformly spaced, the stamp carefully cornered, one long edge opened clean from the swipe of a letter opener. My breath quickened as I carefully slipped the pages from within and slowly unfolded them.  My eyes opened wide taking it all in as I read.  

Love. Life. Plans.

I read another and then another and stopped.  I had all the information I needed.    

My father’s words sounding desperate at times, also revealed longing and devotion for my mother.   Their stormy marriage left me wondering a lot about their feelings. Later that morning, I attended my father’s funeral, holding onto thoughts of their love despite the troubles.  The contents of these envelopes gave proof of their feelings; that is how I survived that day.

Today, while others exclusively prefer instant communication, I prefer the thoughtful crafting of your message and savor the anticipation of a response.  With pen in hand, I write.  I write of ordinary things, like my grandmother did. I write as the observer.  You, dear letter preserve my thoughts, my feelings, my history and the history of the time I live. You ease the burdens of loneliness, sorrow as well as celebrate the joys of the yesterday, today and tomorrow.  You have the capacity to penetrate the heart.   You can’t leave just yet. The world needs more of you. Won’t you just stay?

I, Remain Sincerely Yours,

Barbara