The Last Letter

Do you remember the last personal letter you actually wrote? Mine was never sent. I used to enjoy reading it and wondering about the reasons I never send it. I suppose I never liked my style. Knowing that letters last forever, I was always shy at expressing my feelings on paper. Consequently, my letters sounded (at least to me) as informative and full of clichés.

From time to time I am compelled to organize my drawers and I always face the impulse of trashing almost everything. Two years ago I got rid of that letter. I read it carefully before concluding that it deserved to go.

Now I am supposed to do the same with the last personal letter I received and I just can’t. I’ll keep it and give it back to the writer, probably in September. When we love someone, even the “Dear …”, written with her or his own hand, melts our own heart. Probably, my letters weren’t so bad after all, at least for that someone.

The same applies to the paper where I used to write my personal letters. Standing against time, it keeps its nice unstained blue. Even though it bothers like hell to have something I don’t really need, I just don’t have the courage to trash it. After a day or so of deep consideration, the last letter I received and the writing pad I once used return unhurt to the same drawer, waiting for the next round.