Iteration III


November 16, 2009

My grandmother was of a generation that wrote letters, and more to the point, a generation that expected letters. She told me that when she was young she could write a letter and get a reply in the same day, as the post was delivered morning and evening. I never knew if that was the truth, or if it was meant as inspiration.

I was never particularly good at living up to this expectation for letters. When I was young she wrote to me often, and I certainly knew that she wanted a response. That it would make her happy. She made me tapes of herself reading my favorite books, and though I loved them dearly, I did not write back. I do not know why. Perhaps even at that young age I simply took my close relationships for granted.

I do remember one letter I wrote to her. It was in pencil on wide-ruled notebook paper. Perhaps in thanks for Christmas or birthday presents. I don’t recall the exact topics I covered, just that I sat down and wrote it. It filled about half of the page, which seemed like quite the accomplishment to me at the time. To fill the rest of the space, I wrote “finly!” in various sizes across the rest of the page in red pen. My mom pointed out the spelling error, but it was in pen, and I felt that the point would still get across: Here it is, my grand and worthy contribution. Cherish it, there may not be another.

I was such an ass.