A Dying Art

I read my mom's letter on blue stationary this evening. She started off by calling me "Sweetie." Then it went on to talk about my grandmother and how she used to call her and her sister "Sweetie" at the end of each phone call. Tears released after reading about her. It's been years since her passing, but still it takes the simplest of memories to remind me of Grandma and set me into a whirlwind of weeping.

The smell of coffee makes me think of the time she had made coffee for the family. That one memory leads to an onslaught of a dozen more memories.

It's a good cry, though. I miss my family. I miss my husband. Being thousands of miles away from them hurts, but I get to read their letters, hear their voices on the phone, or chat with them via internet.

I find letters comforting. Reading the words written by hand is almost like talking to the sender in person. A piece of them goes into the letter. It's personal, unlike the internet. Yet, I don't write letters as much as I should. Like I've heard before, "Letter writing is a dying art." It's about time I pick up a pen and write a few letters using the stationary that sits on my shelf collecting dust.