When she made the decision to stop using electronic means to keep in touch, she went to a proper stationary store, and purchased rich, cotton paper that felt comfortable in her hands and retrieved her solid Waterman fountain pen from her desk, refilling the barrel from a bottle of black ink. It became an intense form of communication for her words, it was there she found her emotions, her tone sinking into the heavy paper with the ink, her very being absorbed as the pen moved while she wrote to her lover, her friends, and finally to her mother, the handwriting showing when her mind moved faster than she could write, tears staining the paper at times, bits of herself going into these missives of affection. Folded, sealed, addressed and stamped, she placed them into the mail to be sent off to those she cared for, knowing not all would write back, feeling better for having revived this all but lost art. They were received with appreciation for time spent; read, folded, some tied them up with a ribbon and put away, re-read later to hear her words sing from the paper. The mother took her letter from the postman's hand, weighing it in her own, knowing the distinct Catholic trained handwriting there on the square ivory envelope, a single piece of paper that held forgiveness and asked the same in return. Passing her precisely placed trashbasket, she crumpled it, tossing it in, muttering "two points" and it was lying there that the quality and breeding of the paper showed itself, slowly unfurling, releasing its creases so it was no longer as crushed as the receiver's soul.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
six sentences~love letters
When she made the decision to stop using electronic means to keep in touch, she went to a proper stationary store, and purchased rich, cotton paper that felt comfortable in her hands and retrieved her solid Waterman fountain pen from her desk, refilling the barrel from a bottle of black ink. It became an intense form of communication for her words, it was there she found her emotions, her tone sinking into the heavy paper with the ink, her very being absorbed as the pen moved while she wrote to her lover, her friends, and finally to her mother, the handwriting showing when her mind moved faster than she could write, tears staining the paper at times, bits of herself going into these missives of affection. Folded, sealed, addressed and stamped, she placed them into the mail to be sent off to those she cared for, knowing not all would write back, feeling better for having revived this all but lost art. They were received with appreciation for time spent; read, folded, some tied them up with a ribbon and put away, re-read later to hear her words sing from the paper. The mother took her letter from the postman's hand, weighing it in her own, knowing the distinct Catholic trained handwriting there on the square ivory envelope, a single piece of paper that held forgiveness and asked the same in return. Passing her precisely placed trashbasket, she crumpled it, tossing it in, muttering "two points" and it was lying there that the quality and breeding of the paper showed itself, slowly unfurling, releasing its creases so it was no longer as crushed as the receiver's soul.
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