Mail Call

     Yesterday I fished through a drawer in my writing cave and found an old spiral bound notebook. As I turned away with it in my hand, a piece of paper fluttered out of it. It was a letter written in 1989 by an old friend, a guy we'll call Max. He and I had been school friends, but lost touch for a while. We reconnected a couple years later through a mutual friend. From 1979 to 1990, Max and I exchanged letters frequently. Long, journal-like missives that contained mostly the mundane doings of our daily lives. Sometimes we waxed philosophical, discussing serious things as we stumbled together through our twenties and early thirties, miles apart yet connected firmly by pen, paper and postage. We knew each other's biggest dreams and deepest secrets. 

     He stopped writing regularly after he got married. The last letter, in 1992, was short and to the point. I missed Max for a while. Then I hated his wife. Eventually I hated him. Now I just don't give a damn anymore. 

    Life's too short to waste any of it thinking about people who don't think about me. 

     I opened the single sheet of typing paper that was folded in half and beginning to yellow. I skimmed over it just to see when it was written, but didn't read every word. I laid it on the desk and just stared at it for a while, not sure what to do with it. For years I kept all his letters stuffed into a shoebox, finally burning them to ashes in my driveway sometime in the mid-90's. This was the last remaining letter. The last piece of proof that at one point in our lives we had been friends. 

     With a small nostalgic hitch in my heart, I tore it into a dozen pieces and dropped it in my little wicker waste basket. 

     This evening, I walked to the mailbox and pulled out a stack of sales flyers, credit card applications and yet another plea to renew my AARP membership. Flipping through the stack as I walked back to the house, I noticed the corner of a pretty red envelope peeking out. 

     A letter. From one of my newest friends, a kindred spirit. She's on the other side of an ocean, but also connected by pen and paper, postage and...internet.  I can't wait to pull out my dusty box of stationery and write her back. 

     It's been such a long time.