Living in your letters

I miss the days when we wrote letters.

I used to love writing letters, with pretty stationary, scented and glittery pens, and stickers to seal the envelopes. My letters were always very secret, and although they didn’t contain any actual secrets, I never let anyone read what I was writing, and to who. I’d sit alone, and painstakingly write long paragraphs, about everything and anything, paying particular attention to the handwriting – either cursive, or small caps, not a mix, like my class notes were often in. Winter vacation was the best time for letter – writing; sitting in the balcony, enjoying the sun and making/ writing x-mas/new year cards. That was, however, 12 years ago.

Now, I don’t even open the e-cards I receive sometimes.

Letters now seem historic – we started using emails to keep in touch, and now with IM & cheap broadband connection, I end up using emails only at work.

When was the last time that I received a letter? Sometime in the past 1 year, and not just one letter, but a few. I loved getting them - they gave me a reason to actually check my mailbox, because the only other mail I got was bank statements and bills. I always skimmed through them right away, before taking them up to my room and reading them slowly, absorbing every word. And then again. I’d be smiling throughout, filled with the warmth and comfort that only a handwritten letter can deliver, and no email or phone call can match. There’s something about seeing the words out there, on a crisp sheet of paper, in someone’s own handwriting, rather than type-written paragraphs, that touches the heart. The permanence of those words – which can be pulled out and read anytime you miss that person, or think of them, or wish they were around, is the next best thing to actually have that person present.

I loved your letters, every one of them. I read them over and over, and stashed them away safely, and went back to them during bad times. I confess, I still feel horrible for not replying and writing as often as I would have liked to. I promised you a letter, and I never sent it. I showed it to you sometime – but I didn’t send it because by the time I finished it, half the material it was out dated. That doesn’t matter, and I realize that now. I wish I’d sent it.

Receiving a letter always makes me feel special, because someone took the time out to think of me, and sit down and write to me, and me only. There is no cc/bcc’ing a handwritten letter, and its something that only the writer and the recipient share, a secret of their own, that no one else gets to be a part of.

The fact that you found time for me from your busy schedule makes me feel cared for, when everything looks down.

My apologies to a few people:

A: I wish I had sent that letter, and many more. Dozens of emails, long hours of chats and phone calls, but I still wish I’d sent it to you.

R: Every time I saw a postcard that I liked, I would think of writing to you. I never did; I wish I had.

U: I wish we had continued to write like we did in 8^th grade. Emails were never the same. Personal, but not the same.

I don’t know what happened…maybe that enthusiasm for writing died slowly with busy schedules, growing up, the internet, and various other modes of communication. I keep in touch with these people, and many more.

But letters were different.