Letter writing | Nashville Tennessee fine art, prose + poetry
Today I picked up a piece of paper one with tattered corners and dried glue. An envelope that had yellowed over the years. I felt the paper crinkle as I reached inside, pulling out a watercolored card. Personal drawings and paintings covered the front of the card and the envelope, too.
I opened the folded pages, recognizing the handwriting immediately. I find it interesting - strange, maybe - to read letters that are written by someone who's passed on. Someone who reminded me of a soft song that drifted in the air. It's as if they are still here, the ink forever branded here on earth - a piece of that person here to stay.
Letters are fascinating to me. I remember running to the mailbox when I knew something should be in the mail for me, whether it was a package or a note from a friend. I miss writing letters and addressing envelopes, the simplicity of scrawling out letters on paper, something that is most likely kept in a safe place, not discarded into the trash bin on an email account.
I have a little satchel that I keep in my grandmother's wooden chest and inside are most of the letters I've received over the years. From birthday cards to little notes just because. Every now and then, I like to look at and read them over again. Sometimes it feels like I'm reading them for the first time.
Images of one of the last letters sent to me from my childhood neighbor who lived right across the road from me. She was like a grandmother to me.