There’s a pack of postage stamps somewhere, I saw them last spring while searching for tax receipts. A book of ten glossy peel and stick intentions, tossed with irreverent haste into the chasm of some bottomless drawer. Not that it matters, I have nothing to mail, all I wanted was to hold possibilities.
I tried to remember the last time a hand written letter arrived at my door-step. Drawing blanks, I faced the reality a Christmas card from my sister counted – her decision to pen sentiments meant more than an e-card, at least she bothered to find a stamp.
The more I thought about it, the happier I became. My mind’s eye parading her distinctive calligraphy to a shoebox on my closet shelf. There it was resting atop a lifetime of penned treasures, stoically guarding a dusty old box of tender expression. Letter after letter passed through my hands, fingers fondly skimming strokes of a pen.
I found myself mourning a future of paperless memories, lives existing in clouds of digital storage. Photographs tossed into online folders, communication lost to inadvertent clicks, sentiment reduced to homogenized fonts. Who has time to paste pictures in albums or walk to a mailbox, technology scoffs at such quaintly archaic tasks.
What technology lacks is a shoebox – what humanity needs is a letter. Before it’s too late, each and every one of us needs to write letters. Absurd as that may sound, it just might be the most important gift you have to give – millions of shoe-boxes depend on it.