While sorting through some boxes recently, I stumbled upon an array of forgotten treasures: unused candles, old bathmats, a jar containing a $2 bill, and even a collection of snow globes. I found receipts from my honeymoon, a box filled with a beautiful sterling silver mirror, hairbrush, and comb set, and an inexplicable set of small plastic puffer fish. There was also a Polaroid camera, still nestled in its original packaging.
As I dug deeper, I uncovered boxes filled with remnants from my high school and college days—awards, report cards, trophies, trinkets, concert ticket stubs, and a dried corsage. But what truly took my breath away was the sheer volume of letters I found. Boxes overflowing with letters and nothing else.
To my astonishment, there were not just a few notes but an abundance of cards. Birthday cards, Christmas greetings, and postcards from my grandmother sharing the latest buzz about the Georgia Bulldogs’ football season. Thank-you cards from acquaintances I had only spent a long weekend with, and little reminders from my parents hoping my college experience was everything I dreamed it would be. There were Hallmark cards saying “Hi,” whimsical postcards from my grandmother’s travels, and notes filled with heartfelt sentiments like, “See you at Thanksgiving,” or “You’re too smart to let anyone knock you down.”
I spent this morning laughing, crying, and reminiscing about friends I’ve lost touch with. I felt the weight of how difficult it must have been for my parents to send me out into the world, marveled at the longevity of my relationship with my husband, and mourned my grandmother all over again. While I might not yearn for the high school experience or those initial college years, I deeply miss the letters, cards, and packages that once filled my mailbox with joy.
There’s something magical about that feeling of anticipation while waiting for the mailman, and the thrill of discovering what awaits after a long day. One could argue that we still experience this through email, enjoying the immediacy of a quick response. However, the emotional resonance found in handwritten letters is unmatched. You don’t get the smeared ink or the coffee rings from a misplaced mug in an email. You miss the dirt sprinkled on a letter penned beneath the shade of a tree. The handwriting transitions from “Hi, how are you?” to “You won’t believe what happened” to “I miss you so much it hurts.” The varied pressure of the pen reflects the writer’s emotions, from excitement to longing.
Letters are alive with stories and sentiments. This morning, my grandmother’s cards felt like a breath of fresh air, with her familiar handwriting and smiley faces almost bringing her back to life. People might claim that emails are immediate, but handwritten notes offer a deeper connection—there’s genuine emotion woven into that ink. These letters serve as my time machine.
So, my quest to declutter has hit a snag. The letters, cards, and photos return to their boxes, while I ponder their fate. Discarding puffer fish and candlesticks is easy, but these snippets of heartfelt communication are treasures I can’t let go of.
It was a joy to hear from you today, dear friend. I miss you.
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Summary:
In this nostalgic reflection, Jenna Collins uncovers a treasure trove of letters and cards from her past, which evoke cherished memories and emotions. Despite the convenience of modern communication, she emphasizes the irreplaceable value of handwritten correspondence, showcasing how these artifacts serve as personal time machines that connect us with loved ones.
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