There was a worn texture to the envelope and letter he sent me, and the postage was not of this part of the world. It intrigued me–I could barely wait to open it. Inside was a letter full of kind words and characteristic etchings. Every letter from him has been like that, and every letter has managed to put a smile to my face.
The handwriting was of mostly some form of script that was difficult to read at times. I tried to picture him holding the pen in one hand and writing away. Is he the type to look up from the paper and ponder, with his nose pointed in the air? I do that often, and I find I’m never looking at anything particular, but I’m imagining all sorts of shapes and words that could be something.
I remember when I first sent him a letter–a three-part letter. I was sitting in Becka’s room, up late as usual. She and I had been watching movies and working on assignments the entire night, but instead of an almost-finished paper, my screen projected a blank document with a cursor–ever hopeful and blinking–patiently waiting for me to write something. I left my characteristic etchings on other paper–the other parts to the set of letters I would later send. The letters were full of emotion and hope and dreams, I think.
In Becka’s room, however, I had just begun really thinking. Late that night, I was vulnerable, but how else do you send letters to someone who has never received a letter from you before? If I’m not vulnerable now, they won’t truly know me. These are the things I thought and reconsidered before my fingers touched my keyboard. I almost regretted how I felt for a moment–but honesty shouldn’t scare me. If I want to live free, I have to let it go. I’ve been learning to be less scared of these sorts of things.
So that night, in Becka’s room, under dim lighting, I wrote.