We have all gotten them.
Its amazing how treasured these simple pieces of paper can be.
Aged and delicate from years of being folded and unfolded, sometimes stained by tears over time.
I have a box of old letters, from my dad, from my brother, from friends throughout my life, and I could never part with any, though some are beyond legible in their current state.
Now in my impatience, I eagerly wait for that instant reply through my electronic mail. Always bright and new, no matter how long ago those words were composed. No character, just a white screen with little overly neat and perfect black typing on them.
But beauty is often found in the flaws and the best things in life are worth waiting for.
I miss my snail mail letters. Even if they test my sanity as I wait and wonder for weeks if the intended recipient received my paper present and will be replying with their own for me, I still long to have those pages to tuck away in a special place to look at occasionally throughout the years that pass, and remember. They invoke so much more memory and emotion then anything I could pull up on my computer screen. They are gifts of the time and thought taken to share with me stories from across the miles. They are a little piece of the love from family and friends fit into a tiny envelope.
Far above any jewels or gold you could send me, I crave a handwritten note, one that someday I can pass on to my own children as an heirloom, a memorial, a bit of the writer suspended in time and space, the words as ageless as the paper it is written on is aged.
Have we forgotten what a treasure a handwritten letter can be?