The Letters

The other evening in my class at college, the subject of cursive handwriting came up as we were all signing in for the first night of what will ultimately be eight classes in watercolor technique.  The teacher requested that we all write carefully, so she would have the ability to correctly read our email addresses.  A simple enough request, in light of all of us doing such a small amount of handwriting these days.

Instead, we rely upon our thumbs for text messages, or the keys of a computer, to convey our thoughts.  In some ways, it seems sad when you view the beautiful handwriting of our forefathers, or the script of our mothers or lovers flourished upon sheets of lined paper now tucked away in a drawer of treasured memories.

I have a box that harbors my trove of written memories.  Faithful in its duty to hold onto the times, the people, and the stories representing my loved ones, there are many sheets of ink that build one last bridge back to their authors.  There are letters written for over sixty years of my lifetime by my dear aunt.  A rubber band wraps around a gathering of envelopes containing the words of my father, written while he was working overseas, and stamped with mysterious postal marks in Arabic.  There’s a postcard written by my mother mailed from San Francisco where my parents met.  A scrap or two of paper retains my paternal grandmother’s wise words. There are cards from my dear husband, with his trademark little squiggles.  The box also holds a few thank you cards and birthday greetings from others preserved on beautiful Hallmark cards-their sentiments too precious to throw away.  There are even photos tucked into a few. 

Each time I take a few moments to peruse through these treasures, the memories and a vision of that special person in my life flood back into my consciousness.  I visit with them again in my mind.  Whether they still tread somewhere upon this earth, or wait for me to join them in the next life, their handwriting makes them real and close to me, because they created each stroke of the ink upon the paper.  Their hand held the pen that made the mark that preserves through each word their thoughts.  And that is what is so precious to me.

I wonder sometimes how long the words of a text or email, or even a blog will last?  When a computer dies, or the words are “erased” or “deleted”, does the recipient lose the eternal connection those words yielded to the person who wrote them?  Occasionally, I print out these electronic words that convey the dearest of meanings, place them in a three-ring binder, and refer back to them at times.  While the meaning is conveyed, the physical creation of the words in ink is missing, and so is the personal connection.

Sentimental or not, I vote for the pen and its ink on paper.  I vote for each stroke the pen makes that conveys the unique style of an author’s hand.  I vote for preserving the mind, and the physical memory, of that creator through his or her written words.