Lucky-in-Letters

I consider myself ‘lucky-in-letters’. A few months ago M. sent a loving note scribbled on an (unused) airplane vomit bag. A more recent one, hand-delivered, was written on the back of a xeroxed map. How remarkable, I thought, that someone should be thinking of me while passing through places like Futh Dengain, Waat Malwal, Limkwanchek, Lung, Riyr and Thol. 

But apart from these romantic field-dispatches, all I get these days is bills, forms, publicity and the bin collection schedule.

When did we stop writing letters to each other? Please don’t say the words ‘email’ or ‘internet’; and if I hear ‘social media’ I might have to find you and chase you with a wooden spoon. It’s not what I’m talking about and it is. Not. The same.

Also, we may have stopped writing letters, but I suspect that we have never stopped longing to receive them.

A letter -paper and ink, buy a stamp, walk to the post box, wait weeks for a reply- in fact says: ‘I am giving you a portion of my day. While I am writing this, you have all my attention, my best stories and my love.’

I remember a friend drawing -instead of buying- stamps on the backs of envelopes, in black ink. ‘National Pelican Day’, these fakes proclaimed, and ‘Long Live Comrade Saul’. The letters arrived without fail. 

I remember a few letters written in such small script, they looked like a convention of leggy, microscopic bugs. I see fantastic drawings weaving between words. And I still have a handful of old telegrams daring to describe the world in a dozen words.

I have all my letters from home, in dad's beautiful hand-writing. I see him sit down at his desk, to write to me, I see him smile. His smile still there, on every line he wrote. Never stingy, my dad, with his time or words, stamps or smiles. Best friends with the entire post-office personnel. The postman would have taken his letters to the moon. 

After that there were typed letters stuffed in envelopes, personalised perhaps by a picture or a dried daffodil. 

Then we started typing and - clever us! - faxing our missives. We hoped that the right person was standing there, by the machine, and patted ourselves on the back because look, there was no wait.  

You know what came next. Instead of whinging about it, I think I'll pick up the pen and write some real letters. 

7^th of December - National Letter-Writing Day - found me writing (purple ink on a Pakistani postcard) to the woman who changed her mind at the last minute and didn’t buy our house after all. This late and severe case of cold feet translates all sorts of stress and loss: time, money, tears, efforts and possibilities - and yet, surprisingly, the letter was all I was not that evening: understanding, warm, wise. Only one way to explain the paradox: like Sunday clothes, the written letter forced me to put on paper only the best of myself...

Today I am writing another letter, although no postal service can reach that destination. Still, as in the case of the painted stamps, I believe my message will be received and read. With that smile I know so well.