Snail Mail
After pedaling through driving rain on the way home tonight, I arrived home and met a tangled puzzle of childrens mountain bikes, heaped just inside the garden gate. After expertly solving the twisted heap, I made it indoors and set about clearing the washing up while the children watched movies in the lounge, and my better half bombarded me with stories of the day.
While fishing cups from the cupboard to make two cups of tea, W suddenly pointed at the chalk board, and began walking towards it.“This came for you!“I frowned.“It's from America.“I stoodstill dripping from the cycle homein the middle of our kitchen, and read excerpts of the letter out loud, smiling like a child while doing so. A letter from a friendship forged eight years previouslya time when blogging was about sharing the days of our liveswith no thought of marketing, or search engines, or selling, or offering. A more innocent time, whence the friendships forged have endured.
Standing in the kitchen, holding the piece of paper, reading the handwriting, I was struck by the reality of it all. Her hand had dragged the pen across the paperher thoughts had forged the words. Somehow it was all so much more intimate than an email, or an instant message.
An hour later I am still smiling, and looking out for a telltale light on my phonea signal that the eight year old bridge across the planet will open once again.