A letter

Will you write me a letter please? It's been so long. I promise I will reply.

Remember those days when we used to write to each other? Any letter was greeted with a whoop of joy. We would turn it around, trying to guess whose it could be. The handwriting, the stamp, the seal on the stamp, all clues. We would finally rip open the bursting envelope, you carefully cutting the edge, me clawing holes into it.

And then minutes and hours spent reading it, re-reading it. Forming replies in your head as you read. We would then carry it around in our bags, the envelope absorbing the smell of the books, pencil, pebbles and random other things we carried in them. And a warm afternoon we would sit down to reply. Limited vocabulary, poor spelling, bad handwriting and spreading ink were never obstacles. Events of the week or month that went by, trivial, now that I think of it. But meant the world then.

The letter would be sealed with such care. Sometimes a pretty sticker on the back of the envelope for effect. Sometimes gently opening it again to add something you forgot. Trying to disguise your handwriting so that I wouldn't realise it is you. And that letter too would live in the bag for a few days, gathering smells.

Now all I get in the post are disappointingly empty bank statements and reminders that the car is due for a service.