Do you like to get the old fashioned, luddite version of mail?
Fossil-fuel burning. Ink and paper. Lick and stick.
I confess to ardent worship of the antiquated practice of letter writing. It's one reason I send handwritten postcards to numerous children on every trip. Why I mailed over 100 letters in advance of the release of my novel. Why the proprietress of the local stationery shop turns cartwheels every time I darken the door.
Lately, though, I've been thinking about letter writing for another reason.
I'm sick of being online.
I'm not supposed to talk about my brother. No ranting about him to my husband. No skewering him with my friends. Especially no writing about him in public. Most of you didn't even know I had a brother, did you? That's how well I've followed an old directive.
Well. Screw that. Here's to making up for lost time.
Does your family show affection in bizarre ways? My dead grandmother showed her adoration by cracking my toes, usually when I napped on the sofa or was stupid enough to leave a foot on top of the sheet. One of my aunts whispered "I love you" by hacking into my self-esteem, because she didn't want me to become cocky, my ego unmanageable.
Watching people on a date. It can be like flame licking along wax. You know they're just going through the motions, because they've already set the table on fire.
You fantasize about those dates, right? Even when you're long married.
Because you remember what it was like to be on the other kind of date.
There are moments of sobering truth that overwhelm our belief in our own significance. And sometimes we are present enough to recognize them.