Over the years, I've had numerous penpals. Until recently, I only had one of them remaining. We have never met, and I doubt we ever will, but I have been graced with glimpses into her life since she was fifteen and I, seventeen. It is a strange friendship, knowing I wouldn't recognize her on the street, but having witnessed her - and myself - grow up, find a partner, live in various cities as well as an outback town that made Deadwood seem like the suburban dream. Strange, but a friendship nonetheless.
My best friend sometimes writes me letters. Not too often, but I do remember reading about her tiptoeing her way into what would become the love of her life. She dropped a card into my letterbox before I returned home after the most taxing goodbye of my life so far. Through my haze of jetlag, longing and fury, her card made me feel like I was coming home as opposed to having left it.
Now, I have a new penpal. He doesn't write me often - we talk enough as it is - but he sent me a Valentine's letter that was grossly late and filled with the most devastatingly true and beautiful things I've ever read. I'd thank him, but I'd run dry of words halfway through or never find the right words or not have the courage to say them. I guess that's part of the wonder of letters, that gentle buffer of time that allows us to look each other straight in the eye across the distance.
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