The Letters
She always loved getting letters.
She loved how personal they were. The idea that someone cared enough about her to sit down and think out their ideas and how to transfer them from their mind to their paper pleased her.
She never would’ve admitted it, but checking the mail was one of her favorite parts of the day.
Whenever she returned from the mailbox, she brought a newfound electricity with her that filled every room she passed through on the way to the study.
As she settled into her lounge chair, she would tap her fingers on the envolopes excitedly, waiting for me to join her on my matching chair.
As I plopped down, she would begin to sift through the letters, keeping letters from friends and loved ones in her hands while placing junk mail into the bottom drawer of her desk.
She always separated the junk mail.
This trivial task was never done with anger. It was more as if the mail was a pizza and she was just picking off a few toppings she didn’t like.
She always separated the junk mail.
After the accident, I got many letters in the mail, but this one was different than the rest. This one looked like she wrote it.
When I first saw the letter, I though it was a cruel joke. How can a dead person write a letter?
I remember going numb as I slid it out of the crisp, elegant white envolope and read the simple while card. My skepticism was swept away by her deliberately elegant penmanship. She was the least organized person I know, but she took letters very seriously.
My name was written in big neat letters, just how she wrote them. And the rest of the letter was written in neat, loopy cursive. It didn’t start with Dear ______. She hated that. It was too impersonal.
She commenced the letter with “My dearest”. It was the perfect concoction of formality and care only she could find.
Tears slid down my cheeks as I read her words.
My dearest,
I’m so sorry. No one deserves to be alone. I love you with all my heart. That’s why I must ask this of you.
I need to be with my letters. Not the junk mail. The letters. They mean almost as much to me as you do.
I love you eternally.
By the time I finished the letter I was bawling uncontrollably. Even then, I noticed something.
She always separated the junk mail.
Her funeral was more bearable than I expected. It was hard, of course, but my family and friends were there to support me and help fulfill her final wish.
Instead of everyone dumping a handful of loose dirt over the coffin once it was lowered into her grave, we all dropped letters in. Soon the lid of the coffin wasn’t visible through all the envelopes surrounding it.
She always separated the junk mail.
This thought kept disrupting me for a while after the funeral. It took me a while to finally figure out why.
Each piece of mail she received was proof of her life. Each letter was a puzzle piece of her life. It was personal.
Junk mail, in her mind, defeated the entire purpose of mail. Letters are personal. Letters are FOR YOU. Each letter has your name written on it and is one of a kind.
I think a part of her was tortured by the fact that someone was ruining the idea of writing letters by turning her into a number. A statistic. A potential client. A customer.
They stripped of her personality. They stripped her of her humanity. Therefore, she kept them tucked out of sight.
She always separated the junk mail.
She wanted to be more than a statistic, like most human beings. She wanted to have unique things FOR HER.
The junk mail was the main negativity in her life.
She always separated the junk mail.
Although she despised the junk mail it’s one of the last physical things I have that help me remember her as she truly was.