authorblog: Weekend Wandering
About ever two weeks or so I receive a card or a postcard from my father. I live in Seattle, Washington. He lives in New Jersey. I love receiving his cards in the mail. I love the feel of the crisp envelope and knowing that the card inside fills up every space of the envelope so it is not floppy or flimsy. My father has beautiful cursive handwriting and one quick glance of it is unmistakably his. It's a very comforting sight to me. The simple look of his handwriting. When he sends me cards, they are blank inside so that he can fill them up (both sides) with the "going ons" about my parents lives. Mostly he talks about how it's early in the morning when he writes. I think it's precious, really. He wakes up Sunday mornings, makes coffee and before he heads out to the gym and church, he writes to me from his kitchen table. I am on his mind and he lets me know it.
I have a box that I keep all of his cards in. The stack inside is quite large and heavy and continues to grow. Someday, years and years from now ( I pray!) I know that box will stop growing. But when it does, I will always have his thoughts to read and his handwriting to see and the tangible cards to hold. And always will I see the words that he openly told me in every card..."I love you".
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