What started out as a joyful chore–sending notes of thanks following my most recent birthday–is now turning into an indulgent habit. I know how much I love finding a handwritten note addressed to me amidst the constant bombardment of bills, advertisements, and solicitations. It’s a multilayered experience that begins with the simple delight of knowing that someone is thinking about me, anticipation for the experiences that will be unveiled as I open the card, the entertainment of it’s contents, and the plain nostalgia of the experiences I’ve had with this loved one.
No. Scratch that.
It’s the nostalgia of a simpler time before the myriad of medias screamed for my attention. A simple letter. A pen-pal with whom I could get to know slowly in time.
As I write to my loved ones, I imagine their excitement of seeing a piece of mail with the happy scrawl of their name and address in their mailbox.
On their counter. Posted on the refrigerator. Pasted in a scrap book. Rediscovered years later at the bottom of a drawer or chest.