Postage

In the age of technology and the internet, sending a message through the post is rare, making the occasion exciting despite its inefficiency. Such was the case for my young self, especially as I was gradually entrusted with more and more new technologies that made letter-sending all the rarer.

As a child, I was not exposed to the art of letter-sending. Postage stamps were just stickers, the sole purpose of envelopes to house crude, homemade Mother’s Day cards. Our mailbox was a creaking, tilted, rusty piece of metal that sat stubbornly in front of our house, most likely doing more harm than good to the overall aesthetic of the yard. I didn’t receive mail, so I did not care for it or anything related. I left it alone, and it left me alone.

Except until the day my dad marched into the house holding an envelope specifically addressed to me, a small piece of treasure tucked between the numerous plastic sheets of junk mail.

Before you ask: no, it was not a grade report or a formal letter of achievement mailed directly to me. It wasn’t typed out in neat little lines of Times New Roman with a printed signature and a fancy seal -- it wasn’t that kind of letter. This letter was personally addressed to me, the address and the name handwritten on the back and sealed with a smiley face sticker. 

The excitement I felt at that moment was unreasonably high, a kind of heart-pounding exhilaration I usually only felt on my birthday. I opened the envelope, making sure to preserve the sticker, and began to read. 

Inside was a simple handwritten letter from a friend who had recently moved to Washington along with a couple postage stamps and a friendship bracelet. The letter began with “Dear,” ended with “Love,” and included a “P.S.” that requested I write her a reply, which I did immediately upon finishing the letter. Heart bursting with eagerness, I carefully outlined “Dear” and “Love,” added an obscene number of postscripts, and even made a friendship bracelet. Upon my insistence I added the postage stamps myself and put the letter in the mailbox with my own two hands, raising the red flag on my dad’s instructions.

Afterward, my daily routine changed. Every day I came back from school and checked the mailbox, every day I asked my parents incessantly whether there had been new mail. Every day there was nothing, and then one day there was. Excited, though perhaps not as much as the first time, I read through the new letter and wrote a letter in reply. The anticipation the second time around was high, but again, less than before. The cycle went on. 

Slowly, slowly, the task of writing a letter back became more and more of a chore. The once exciting task became mundane and boring with time. The wait was too long and the satisfaction I felt from reading her letters was too little. I began taking more time to send a reply. So did she. The letters filled with lines of meaningless words hidden behind exclamation points and question marks. Anticipation waned and tilted towards apathy.

Until one day, we stopped.

And that was that.