Written in a handwriting I somehow feel I should remember but don't came a card with an anonymous birthday note yesterday.
Yes I do and I woke up this morning tantalized by the card that lacked a person. I didn't mind that it lacked a person ... person-dom is fun, but not exactly necessary. The card felt warm in my mind ... something placed on the parallel-lines-meet-in-infinity tracks. If it was a mystery, that was fine. If it wasn't a mystery, that was fine. Do the lines meet? Fine. Do the lines never meet? Fine. Everything felt toasty as I lay warm in bed in the pre-dawn hours basking in thoughts that allowed me to remain ensconced in sheet and blankets.
Letters -- the snailmail kind -- were lovely. They presumed without demurrer that between sending and receiving, little or nothing had changed. They allowed for raucous opinion or gnashing sorrow. How in love or hate anyone might be! How decorous or indecorous! How I would hang on their words after opening one from someone I hoped to hear from. There was no internet. No rush ... or, even if there was a rush, the rush was deflated by life's stately paces. Letters assumed both parties credited letters as concrete purveyors of the God's honest truth ... after three or four or five days traveling.
"I love you...."
The diaphanous words hung on diaphanous threads in a diaphanous mind ... and for whatever brief moment, it spelled out a cuddling "yes."