My inbox today is filled mostly with requests to evaluate services and products, along with reminders of things I put in my carts at Wayfair and Amazon and never bought. I click all of those off and look for personal notes. I always enjoy letters by any means--but there's nothing like a handwritten card or letter to bring my heart up to my throat.
There was a red box in the closet that must have been there for twenty years. In that box were old yellowed letters, cards, and even scribbles from my kids when they were babies. These are the things I grabbed when I packed to leave to start life on my own.
Most treasured of all were the letters from my daddy. He rarely wrote letters and he's not here now to write them, so I read every word of them with tears in my eyes, reading the lines and between the lines more carefully, I'm sure, than I did when I got them, back when I thought we had forever.
On August 31, 1995, he tells me he's planted "8 hills of squash." He tells me how proud he is that I was accepted into Breadloaf (they sent a check for me to go there) and about how much he loves Day and Will. He says he can hardly believe that I drove 8200 miles and even drove "through New York City" all by myself!
On page four of the yellow-pad letter, he writes, "Looks like I need to get busy and help Carlene with supper. Wish you could just drop in and break bread with us. I'll close for now. How about that--with more space below and the pen is not dry yet--Just like the love we have for you--it will never run dry. Let me know if you need anything. Love, Lloyd"
I'm almost the age now that he was when he wrote that letter. I treasure it so!
The last letter he wrote to me was actually a seven-word request: "Pencil. I want to write you a note." He was in ICU, confused--writing me a request for a pencil with a pencil. It was his last week of life and he was in and out of consciousness. I've wondered for fifteen years what it was he wanted to write.
The ink will never run dry either way--though I had to be careful on this particular letter not to smudge the ink with tears.
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