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 a bottomless drawer. With nothing to mail, all I wanted was to hold the possibility.
Trying to remember the last time a hand written letter arrived at my door-step, 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, my mind’s eye paraded her distinctive calligraphy to a shoebox on the closet shelf. There it was, resting atop a lifetime of penned treasures, stoically guarding a dusty box of tender expression. Letter after letter passed through my hands, serenaded by pen strokes’ symphony.
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 quaintly archaic tasks.
Technology lacks a shoe box, humanity desperately needs a letter. Before it’s too late, each and every one of us needs to write a letter. Absurd as that may sound, it might be the most important gift of all – millions of shoe-boxes depend on it.