Letters. Who waits for letters anymore? I do. For a long number of years I’ve been exchanging letters with my high school English teacher. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be here, I think. At least not in the pretty good shape that I’m in. The letters contain no big revelations. The start of the Great American Novel is not there. The handwriting used to be clearer, now it is nearly scribbles — her husband took over the writing some years ago. They enclose pictures of their garden in full bloom — close ups of butterflies and small animals passing through on their journeys. Pictures of summer sent even in the winter.
How did it all start? I walked up to her desk for the first time after class in high school. I felt scared, but something in the story “Silent Snow, Secret Snow” by Conrad Aiken brought out feelings deep inside me. The world getting smaller. It reminded me of my mother — I’ll leave it at that. So I told her. Told her like so many teenagers do in that cathartic moment when those big old secrets come tumbling out. There…out into the world. And I could still breathe. She took it all in — calmly and compassionately.
“I’d be sad if you ever forgot about me,” she wrote. “There is a connection there.” I haven’t forgoten, but I took the connection for granted all these years. The letters always come in the mail every few months, (especially around the Jewish holidays.)
I felt the turning of this new year as reconnection, gratitude, relief. We’ve all survived so much. For some reason, I hadn’t talked to her in years. I called her. We talked for just a few minutes. She asked knowing questions, I answered, we laughed. After I hung up the phone, I felt grounded — more than I had in months.
After the holidays during a pandemic, our world can be as small as our houses or apartments. But we haven’t disappeared. There’s that internet, that social media with the hit of dopamine for every selfie. But if you are lucky, there are some letters. I thumb over the wax seal on the outside of the envelope, tear through it to the card, see the sometimes slightly off humor comments on the cover, the understatements such as “strange times we live in”, the photos of the garden. I’ve kept most of the letters in a basket. I can close my eyes and see her handwriting. Inscribed in a part of my life. A part that hasn’t changed.
That person who saved your life, someway, somehow…call them, write. Talk out loud to them if they have passed.
