Note: This is something I wrote a while back--It is still not finished... it may never be.
I've always loved getting REAL mail. You remember it, right? Paper, envelope, ink, stamp, and sealed with a kiss? The "before-email" kind that was delivered by the postman into the mailbox right in front of your house? With all of today's technology it seems to arrive less and less these days. It all seems so unfortunate to me.
The arrival of miscellaneous magazines, pamphlets, and brochures may seem an annoyance to many, but to me the mail has always been like receiving a surprise package daily. I openly welcome all sorts. O, but letters! There is just something poetic and lovely about handwritten letters, a secret sealed tightly with a postmark in the corner.
I still remember the first time I ever received a letter that was just for me. I was about seven years old if I remember correctly. The two page letter was held together with a silver staple in the corner and sent to me from my Aunt "Carrie" (that's what we'll call her for sake of this post) in Florida, my mother's eldest sister. It was beautifully wrapped in a lavender envelope with a heart stamp and "Miss Melinda C********" scrawled in her handwriting that I would soon come to recognize at first glance.
I would squeal with delight when I saw my name, whirling as I took it into my tiny hands and ran to my bedroom to devour that letter within seconds. I felt like Cinderella receiving her invitation to the ball. I held onto that letter for years and guarded it as one of my most beloved possessions.
Eventually the fragile folds began to tear and many of the words were smeared and stained beyond recognition. I'm not sure what happened to that letter in the end. Perhaps it was accidentally thrown away, hidden secretly within a book, or maybe it is stashed inside a box awaiting my discovery in future years. I would love to see it again someday.
The letters from my Aunt "Carrie" began arriving once a month like clockwork. They came in pairs. Side by side, one for my mother and one just for me. This is mainly how I communicated with my aunt for most of my life (she living four states away and my mother being terrified of airplanes). There were occasional telephone calls on birthdays, holidays, here and there...enough to put a voice to the letters. But most of our relationship was penned and perfect. Perhaps that was part of what became the problem in later years. However, at that time it was my very own personal storybook.
She would always begin by asking how I was and what was going on in my life. What seemed simple and predictable to a stranger's eye was exactly what was comforting to me. I would reply with detailed accounts of playground drama and current booklists compiled from my endless trips to the closet library that was nestled between two buildings in our tiny little village. I would pour my heart out about things I'm sure she found senseless and miniscule yet sweet and endearing. Never having children of her own, I'm sure my childhood ordeals and mishaps were a welcome change in her stressful adult world.
The frequency of the letters began to taper off as the years passed on. Perhaps my aunt had become busier in her own life...perhaps I didn't answer fast enough because of mine. Whatever the cause, we came to know each other less and less. When I was about thirteen years old, the letters nearly ceased. The relationship between my mother and I had turned from bitter to sour. Puberty was taking its toll on me as I tried to discover who I was away from my mother and her visions for me. My mother and my Aunt "Carrie" were quite close, almost having a mother/daughter relationship of their own.
Mother would tell my aunt about my misbehaving and outbursts and my aunt would make comments about disrespect and ungratefulness. I had overheard many of their conversations and "stumbled" across several letters of such content. I remember even then not understanding. I remember the hurt--the disappointment. Granted, I knew that my behavior was at best disruptive at times...but what I was really yearning for than anything was for someone to just love me for who I was and for who I was trying so desperately to become. How can someone that I shared my most intimate thoughts with know so little of me to take someone else's word at face value with such a futile attempt at understanding?
True, my mother was her sister, but I was her niece as well. Aunt "Carrie" knew both of us well. Surely (being a logic-driven woman) she knew that if I was misbehaving in such ways that there had to be a reason for it. Perhaps there is a fine line between being sympathetic for one's sister and being blinded by it.Still...how could she not know that there are two sides to every story? How can an adult that had herself lived a life of both heartache and passion not understand my need to find out who I was? How could she not see through this fog? I didn't understand my own life happenings let alone try to understand the "why's" and "how's" of this situation. Slowly but surely, the ties between my aunt and I had been entirely cut. And my heart ached.
(unfinished)
I've always loved getting REAL mail. You remember it, right? Paper, envelope, ink, stamp, and sealed with a kiss? The "before-email" kind that was delivered by the postman into the mailbox right in front of your house? With all of today's technology it seems to arrive less and less these days. It all seems so unfortunate to me.
The arrival of miscellaneous magazines, pamphlets, and brochures may seem an annoyance to many, but to me the mail has always been like receiving a surprise package daily. I openly welcome all sorts. O, but letters! There is just something poetic and lovely about handwritten letters, a secret sealed tightly with a postmark in the corner.
I still remember the first time I ever received a letter that was just for me. I was about seven years old if I remember correctly. The two page letter was held together with a silver staple in the corner and sent to me from my Aunt "Carrie" (that's what we'll call her for sake of this post) in Florida, my mother's eldest sister. It was beautifully wrapped in a lavender envelope with a heart stamp and "Miss Melinda C********" scrawled in her handwriting that I would soon come to recognize at first glance.
I would squeal with delight when I saw my name, whirling as I took it into my tiny hands and ran to my bedroom to devour that letter within seconds. I felt like Cinderella receiving her invitation to the ball. I held onto that letter for years and guarded it as one of my most beloved possessions.
Eventually the fragile folds began to tear and many of the words were smeared and stained beyond recognition. I'm not sure what happened to that letter in the end. Perhaps it was accidentally thrown away, hidden secretly within a book, or maybe it is stashed inside a box awaiting my discovery in future years. I would love to see it again someday.
The letters from my Aunt "Carrie" began arriving once a month like clockwork. They came in pairs. Side by side, one for my mother and one just for me. This is mainly how I communicated with my aunt for most of my life (she living four states away and my mother being terrified of airplanes). There were occasional telephone calls on birthdays, holidays, here and there...enough to put a voice to the letters. But most of our relationship was penned and perfect. Perhaps that was part of what became the problem in later years. However, at that time it was my very own personal storybook.
She would always begin by asking how I was and what was going on in my life. What seemed simple and predictable to a stranger's eye was exactly what was comforting to me. I would reply with detailed accounts of playground drama and current booklists compiled from my endless trips to the closet library that was nestled between two buildings in our tiny little village. I would pour my heart out about things I'm sure she found senseless and miniscule yet sweet and endearing. Never having children of her own, I'm sure my childhood ordeals and mishaps were a welcome change in her stressful adult world.
The frequency of the letters began to taper off as the years passed on. Perhaps my aunt had become busier in her own life...perhaps I didn't answer fast enough because of mine. Whatever the cause, we came to know each other less and less. When I was about thirteen years old, the letters nearly ceased. The relationship between my mother and I had turned from bitter to sour. Puberty was taking its toll on me as I tried to discover who I was away from my mother and her visions for me. My mother and my Aunt "Carrie" were quite close, almost having a mother/daughter relationship of their own.
Mother would tell my aunt about my misbehaving and outbursts and my aunt would make comments about disrespect and ungratefulness. I had overheard many of their conversations and "stumbled" across several letters of such content. I remember even then not understanding. I remember the hurt--the disappointment. Granted, I knew that my behavior was at best disruptive at times...but what I was really yearning for than anything was for someone to just love me for who I was and for who I was trying so desperately to become. How can someone that I shared my most intimate thoughts with know so little of me to take someone else's word at face value with such a futile attempt at understanding?
True, my mother was her sister, but I was her niece as well. Aunt "Carrie" knew both of us well. Surely (being a logic-driven woman) she knew that if I was misbehaving in such ways that there had to be a reason for it. Perhaps there is a fine line between being sympathetic for one's sister and being blinded by it.Still...how could she not know that there are two sides to every story? How can an adult that had herself lived a life of both heartache and passion not understand my need to find out who I was? How could she not see through this fog? I didn't understand my own life happenings let alone try to understand the "why's" and "how's" of this situation. Slowly but surely, the ties between my aunt and I had been entirely cut. And my heart ached.
(unfinished)
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