anticipating letters

Something is missing today in this time of email, texts, voicemail, and instant messaging. That sweet feeling in the pit of the stomach, checking the mailbox for a letter. Just mailed one this morning and it doesn’t matter if we criss-cross letters. Mine was about yesterday and class, the strange but delicious chili for lunch, how it put me to sleep in Electrical Engineering class but how I managed to pass the quiz, eight out of ten, tennis practice in the wind with leaves blowing in tornado cones on the courts, winning our match to be second doubles instead of third for the Cornell match on Saturday indoors, thankfully. Dinner then homework. There’s the smell of her letters and I usually take a moment to inhale it before I open it. The fragrance is like a lavender, mown grass version of placing my face into her hair and breathing as we walk on the beach. A few weeks ago, sand poured from an envelope, about teaspoon full. I carefully swept it from the floor, placing it in a folded piece of paper, a history quiz I bombed (forgettable on the Battle of Richmond) and now I have to remember to get a jar because I want more. There’s always the first quick read, for news, but usually because it’s crazy around here with my roommates talking and carrying on as we do. I often carry the letter in my hat to the messhall and read it during my second cup of coffee after dinner when everyone else scurries back to quarters to study and shine shoes. It’s then, on this long reading, this careful examination of handwriting and tone that I begin to compose my reply in the way of a sketch. Then, I’ll go to my room, get my books for homework and head to my library desk on the third floor and concentrate for a few hours while the letter sits in my hat. I smell it from time to time, anticipating the time I can write. Maybe tonight, but probably tomorrow during the free period mid-afternoon. Remember to place this one with the others, tied with that bit of string we used to repair the sail on Labor Day weekend. It smells like the sea, still.

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