I don’t get much mail anymore, not even junk mail. Some days the doorstep is bare. Last week was different. I came home exhausted, stepped out of elevator and spied a familiar red and blue border. A border I hadn’t seen in many years.
My parents were great travellers and my childhood was spent opening envelopes with red and blue diagonal lines from around the world. Each one filled with onion skin paper, its thinness making it all the more precious.
I set this current missive on the kitchen table; grabbed a glass of water; fingered the envelope; gazed at the stamp (meticulously chosen) and smiled. My friend, Paul Panich is a careful person. She appreciates paper, fountain pens and words. As Amy Lowell said, she squeezes a lot into those little inkdrops.
I am not sure we can call email, correspondence. Perhaps, this is another word that will disappear from everyday speech. I am lucky to have a friend who still writes letters, I want read over and over again.
“And none will hear the postman’s knock
Without a quickening of the heart.
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?
– W.H. Auden