Over the summer I sorted through boxes of photographs and letters that had been in my attic for years. Among all of it I discovered hundreds of letters from my sister, written to me when she first moved abroad in the early 90s, before either of us had computers and email. I read the letters, then bundled and sent them to her, a kind of journal of what was going on in her life at that time.
Who still writes letters? I don't mean the occasional thank you note or invitation, but a letter, on a sheet of paper. Last week, I wrote a letter, my first one in years. My son, who is now at college, loves receiving mail; finding a letter in his campus mailbox is an instant high for him.
This weekend, I'll write again, having rediscovered the simple pleasure of writing a letter.