Arriving at the mailbox cluster with feet on automatic, the rest of the body dejected, mind on the trying times of life at large. The usual mail comes out. Why even bother to check every day? One quick look through the narrow slit would reveal what’s inside: Junk. Walking back the short distance home, something slips through the ambitious pile of useless papers the left hand (the most capable one) holds. A pale green envelope. Every little move downward hurting the aching back and knees, the addressee’s information becomes visible: All in handwriting. A hint of hope takes over. What if the handwriting isn’t a trick by some company after all, like the one from where iced best wishes come on special days, year after year after year?
It is not junkmail! Excitement grows. A careful cut at the envelope’s top reveals its content: An actual card, a gorgeous one at that, from a dear friend – also a neighbor, who warmed up the heart on numerous other occasions before. Year after year after year. Just like that dearest cousin capable of sending a piece of her heart from overseas to help celebrate the human life shaping and reshaping over here. For every small and big occasion. Making sure to warm up all over again the cooling heart. Up to the time of her premature death.
The ever so fluctuating mood made up of grim thoughts, low emotions? Oh, that one? It has already moved in the other direction. For it is not a coded message, not even a mere short note that the left hand holds with such a tight grip. It is rather a timeless compilation of detailed sentiments of extraordinary warmth and care. A reach-out gift with resillience not to disappear with immense ease; to add instead anew life to all the other postcards and letters that have been accumulating for long inside multiple boxes of unique memorabilia.
Cyberspace is not welcome today.
hülyaswritings 