September 28th, 2017


Thinking today how exciting it is to find anything with real hand-writing on it when checking the mail. Usually there is none, except maybe when it's time for birthday or Christmas cards. Worse than none is the junk mail with fake handwriting to fool you into double-checking, then even more insulting because it tends to be an offer to buy an ugly house, which hurts my house's feelings. 

I used to be a big letter writer, as was my aunt and some of my friends, so over the years I accumulated a big heavy box packed solid with letters and postcards. I finally went through the box a couple years ago and got rid of all but a handful. It felt like a crime, all those thoughts and words going to the dumpster. But I reread them first, and they were words and thoughts meant to only be shared with me --my younger dumber self, not some person who is tasked with sorting and trashing my stuff after I'm gone. I thought about this while going through my mom's things last year, stopping to read some things and feeling intrusive.

The box also had lots of notes. Some as far back as junior high or taped on the doors of my first apartments or under the wipers of my car... How delightful it was to find a note shoved through the vents in my locker. I think the last one I ever got was just the hand-scrawled lyrics of  Journey's "Open Arms."  Too bad I always hated that song.

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