While rummaging through some old boxes, I stumbled upon an assortment of forgotten treasures: unused candles, tattered bathmats, and even a jar containing a $2 bill. There were quirky snow globes, receipts from my honeymoon, and a lovely box housing a sterling silver mirror, hairbrush, and comb set. I even found three little plastic puffer fish that left me scratching my head. Oh, and a Polaroid camera—still in its original packaging!
Then came the time capsules from my high school and college years: awards, report cards, trophies, and an array of trinkets. Concert ticket stubs and a wilted corsage brought back a rush of memories. But what truly caught my eye were the boxes filled with letters. Literally, boxes overflowing with correspondence.
What amazed me the most was the sheer volume of cards—birthday wishes, Christmas greetings, and even postcards from my grandmother detailing the Georgia Bulldawgs’ football season. I found thank-you notes from acquaintances I had spent a weekend with, as well as little reminders from my parents encouraging me to save money and hoping that my college experience was everything I had dreamed of. There were Hallmark cards just saying “Hi,” and funny postcards from my grandmother while she was on vacation. Notes ranged from simple “See you at Thanksgiving” to more heartfelt messages like “You’re too smart to let someone knock you down.”
As I sat there this morning, surrounded by these fragments of my past, I laughed, cried, and felt the pang of missing friends I had lost touch with. I thought about how difficult it must have been for my parents to send me off into the world, and I marveled at how long my husband and I have been together. I found myself mourning my grandmother all over again.
While I don’t miss the awkwardness of high school or those tumultuous first years of college, I do miss the joy of receiving letters, cards, and pictures. I miss the thrill of waiting for the mailman, wondering what surprises awaited me after a long day.
Sure, one could argue that we still experience a sense of excitement with emails, enjoying the instant gratification of quick replies. And while the sentiments can be similar, they lack that tangible connection. You don’t get the smudged ink or the coffee ring from an errant cup. You miss the earthy sprinkle of dirt from someone writing under a tree and the evolution of handwriting from “Hey, how’s it going?” to “You won’t believe what just happened!” to “I miss you so much it hurts.” The pen presses harder; the pencil gets erased and rewritten.
There’s so much life encapsulated in these letters. For instance, seeing my grandmother’s handwriting knocked the wind out of me. The little smiley faces she would doodle and the smudge that resembled a thumbprint made it feel as though she were right there with me in my room, alive and thriving, still sending me messages.
People often claim that emails have a certain immediacy, but nothing compares to the warmth of a handwritten note. That ink carries life; that scrawl conveys deep emotion. These letters are my personal time machine.
So, my decluttering efforts have hit a snag. The letters, cards, and photos are safely back in their boxes, and now I must decide what to do with them. Disposing of puffer fish and candlesticks is easy, but these little snippets of daily joy? They’re sticking around.
(Thanks for reaching out today, Lila. I miss you!)
This piece was originally published on April 25, 2015.
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In summary, the experience of revisiting handwritten letters is a poignant reminder of the connections we forge in life. Each note and card is a thread that ties us to our past, making the effort of decluttering feel moot when weighed against the sentimental value they hold.