The Year of Letters

This was a long, strange year. I missed my family terribly, and phone calls started to feel the same, week after week.

So in March I wrote my aunt a real letter, with paper and a stamp. I told her about my week, my cat's latest crime and a book I was reading. Two weeks later she wrote back, four whole pages with a pressed flower inside.

Then I wrote to my cousin. And my old college roommate. And my nephew, who is nine and sent back a drawing of a shark eating a hamburger.

By December I had a shoebox full of letters. I reread them on the bad days. There's something about handwriting, the way people cross things out, the little doodles in the margins, that makes you feel close even when you're far away.

The year took a lot of things. But it gave me back the joy of the mailbox, and I'm keeping it.