Writings

I sit in front of a pile of yellowed paper, neatly stacked and sealed in a gallon Ziploc bag. It has been tucked away in my desk, waiting for the day when a different man would know what to do with them. Today is not that day.

It was not long ago that I received these letters. They didn’t arrive by mail, rather, by hand. My own letters, returned to sender, in the wake of my grandmother’s passing. She kept them all, each one that I wrote. I have always wondered why I, or we, as humans, keep sentimental things. They often lie tucked away, hidden from our everyday eyes- not forgotten, but rather, waiting to be remembered.