Yesterday I went to the mail. I mean the actual mail box, on a post by the side of the road. I've noticed over the years how it contains more advertisements and offers than actual correspondence. E-mail has taken a decided advantage. I admit I prefer it myself, most times. But yesterday I was so pleased to withdraw from that cavern a letter. It was an actual hand written letter from an old friend. It was like shaking his hand just to hold it. I looked at the return address and was a little afraid. My first thought was something bad may have happened. That was followed by a whole string of thoughts and possibilities. It was exciting in a way. an anticipation. I went upstairs to my apartment to read.
Opening this letter with my pocketknife, I don't own a letter opener, I unfolded it. There it was, in his own hand, my friend speaking to me. I'm impressed. You just don't get many handwritten letters these days. I realize the time and effort required to accomplish that. I write things out in script to stay in practice and hopefully improve its' legibility. I am curious about what he has to say. To my relief I discover there is nothing wrong, the only thing that has happened is life. It has been many years since I last saw my friend Bill. We were both much younger then. And it was our youth that he wrote about with fondness. I too have good memories of those days. Old friends share secrets. They are the secrets of youth and discovery, of learning life's lessons. Each of our friends contribute to who we become, some more than others. Without getting overly dramatic Bill made a significant contribution. I am grateful.
Over the years we went our separate ways pursuing life, as people do. We would exchange a phone call, or share a Christmas card. I would hear news of him from other mutual friends. I was pleased to hear of his successes and sad when I heard of his losses. Each of us living our lives and doing the best we can. Time, choices and circumstance have separated us. We like, no need, to believe, that had we stayed in close proximity to each other that the friendship would have just continued as it was. I wonder if that is so. Not because of my friend, but because of me. I'm certainly not the same person I was in 1970. Maybe its' presumptuous of me but I feel like I have matured, experienced personal growth as the experts call it. I'm equally certain my friend has as well. How smoothly that would have went together I'm not so sure. Ah, but that is life isn't it? And Bill was in my life, a part of it, a contributor, and that can never be denied or dismissed.
This morning I thank Bill for writing. I thank him for taking the time. Time as we all know is our most precious commodity. I was anxious to answer his letter. I admit I sent him e-mail. I took the easiest and fastest route. I will write him a letter real soon. Some time back I went in search of stationary, you know that stuff you write letters on, and found it difficult to locate. I remember when gift sets of that were common enough. I found it a challenge to compose an e-mail to him, what to say. As much as I enjoy the old memories, the old stories, I wonder who he is today? I worry he may not like who I am today. Have you ever thought such of old friends you haven't seen or been with for years? Are we the same people? Seems to me only memories remain the same, everything else is subject to change. But there is something, a voice, an intuition that tells me otherwise. I hear that Bill is just the same. A friend. And that is one of the best things a person can be. Thanks Bill, good to hear from you.
Opening this letter with my pocketknife, I don't own a letter opener, I unfolded it. There it was, in his own hand, my friend speaking to me. I'm impressed. You just don't get many handwritten letters these days. I realize the time and effort required to accomplish that. I write things out in script to stay in practice and hopefully improve its' legibility. I am curious about what he has to say. To my relief I discover there is nothing wrong, the only thing that has happened is life. It has been many years since I last saw my friend Bill. We were both much younger then. And it was our youth that he wrote about with fondness. I too have good memories of those days. Old friends share secrets. They are the secrets of youth and discovery, of learning life's lessons. Each of our friends contribute to who we become, some more than others. Without getting overly dramatic Bill made a significant contribution. I am grateful.
Over the years we went our separate ways pursuing life, as people do. We would exchange a phone call, or share a Christmas card. I would hear news of him from other mutual friends. I was pleased to hear of his successes and sad when I heard of his losses. Each of us living our lives and doing the best we can. Time, choices and circumstance have separated us. We like, no need, to believe, that had we stayed in close proximity to each other that the friendship would have just continued as it was. I wonder if that is so. Not because of my friend, but because of me. I'm certainly not the same person I was in 1970. Maybe its' presumptuous of me but I feel like I have matured, experienced personal growth as the experts call it. I'm equally certain my friend has as well. How smoothly that would have went together I'm not so sure. Ah, but that is life isn't it? And Bill was in my life, a part of it, a contributor, and that can never be denied or dismissed.
This morning I thank Bill for writing. I thank him for taking the time. Time as we all know is our most precious commodity. I was anxious to answer his letter. I admit I sent him e-mail. I took the easiest and fastest route. I will write him a letter real soon. Some time back I went in search of stationary, you know that stuff you write letters on, and found it difficult to locate. I remember when gift sets of that were common enough. I found it a challenge to compose an e-mail to him, what to say. As much as I enjoy the old memories, the old stories, I wonder who he is today? I worry he may not like who I am today. Have you ever thought such of old friends you haven't seen or been with for years? Are we the same people? Seems to me only memories remain the same, everything else is subject to change. But there is something, a voice, an intuition that tells me otherwise. I hear that Bill is just the same. A friend. And that is one of the best things a person can be. Thanks Bill, good to hear from you.
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