She peered down the bridge of her nose, through her faithful old spectacles that provided a slight cloudiness at the edges of her vision.
She wished she could hold the letter from her son in her hands, not read it on the computer screen. No, she realized, she didn’t want a print of the text that appeared in front of her on the screen, either.
She wanted his handwriting. His untidy chicken-scrawl that had made the task of reading his letters so wonderfully time consuming. The flow of ink, the way he stressed on the dots in the i's and j's and the bold off the mark slashes that cut through the t's.The careful folds of the paper, her awareness that he must have rest his hands on it, the way he must have held the pen in his hands when he sat down to write her a letter in his study… The intensity of these images was fading away, now there were no letters, just emails. She thought that she might be asking for too much, expecting hand written letters in this age of 2-min technology…but she missed keeping old letters next to her when she went to sleep , almost as if his presence was tangible in that singular piece of paper.
Count your blessings she told herself. At least he cared enough to send an email once in a while….thinking about the past and the happiness it had brought her would do no good.
Memories should always exist as entities meant to be treasured, not something that would bring resentment or grief to her present.
She smiled and reached for the ruled paper pad and her pen. She had a reply to write.