I was looking through some old papers, sorting more or less, when I felt something slip to the table in front of me. It was an envelope and when I turned it over, the handwriting reached out with instant recognition and a catch of breath. In various trips and movings, it had slipped from drawer to box to shelf to stack to drawer and so on. And here it was, not two days after I had been thinking of Sydney as a link to the past. My father’s handwriting; my son’s then address. So many times I watched that writing appear on paper flowing from a pen – for as long as I can remember.
There’s a letter inside, but it’s not mine; it belongs to someone else. But I’m going to keep it here with me until I can pass it from my hand to his.
When I was cleaning during the whole remodeling process I ran across a note that my mother had written me. It was the last thing she was ever able to write me. I read the words and for once didn’t cry. I think that’s bad.
No, that’s not bad . . . sometimes things will wrap you in a warm comforter and you just stop and rest a little
Thanks. that makes total sense to me and makes me feel better about not crying in some odd way.
As for the road trip… not happening until that boy is totally potty trained….. they are being a bit “slow” about it. 🙂