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 the 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.

I read a couple of the letters again. They are a glimpse of the past, a snapshot into my own life- I can remember where I was when I wrote them, how I was feeling. I have plenty of pictures from those times, but none of them can quite bring me back like that. A picture might be worth a thousand words, but some words don’t have a visual translation.

My grandmother, whom I affectionately called “Grandma Dearest” after a movie I still have never seen, was a woman of great character. She did not own a computer or a television; she barely owned a cell phone. She did not email, or text. Rather, conversation would take place in her living room, over the phone, or by letter. Each month of my undergrad studies, I received a card in the mail, typically of whichever major or obscure holiday took place that month. The card contained a crisp $20 bill and black ink hieroglyphs. The former message was well understood, but the latter would have to be read over two or three times, deciphered using context clues and by cross-referencing letters. At first glance, one might be tempted to claim the text was not English, but she spent her days completing crossword puzzles and reading the Oxford dictionary. The subtle part of the letter, hidden from the naked eye, was the time spent picking out the card, writing and addressing it, and bringing it to the post office. It was the time she spent, the “I was thinking about you”- the love. That’s not something that comes in a text message.

And then I would reciprocate. I would sit down, for 30 minutes to an hour, and craft my response. I would include an update on my life as a whole- my studies, my hockey season, my girlfriend (who she adored), my dog, or my adventures around the world. She particularly enjoyed hearing the names of the courses I was taking, like Thermodynamics or Electromagnetic Studies, which she believed I was making up. Of course, no good letter was complete without some humor woven in. I spent time writing the letters, and then I’d send it. I knew the letters were well-received when I heard bits of them repeated back to me by those who had the pleasure of talking to her.

I still hold on to the art of writing letters. On the end of the writer, it is an act of love. It is an expression of appreciation and a time to reflect on what the receiver means to you, what they might want to hear. On the other side, after the many hands which passed it and the miles it traveled, the letter is a gift. It is truly a blessing to know you were being thought of– the excitement of seeing your own handwritten name in the mail is louder than any ding from cell phone.

My final letter to Grandma Dearest was written on May 29th of 2024. The letter didn’t go through the mail– rather, it was personally delivered and read aloud at her bedside. I miss her dearly.