I have a box of letters under my bed. They’re folded neatly in creased envelopes, colourful stamps still attached, the product of months of letter writing between myself and a friend. They sit there, waiting for me to pick them up, read them through and remember when we wrote letters.
It’s been a long time since I wrote a real letter. I write messages to people over Facebook messenger. I write emails. Occasionally I talk over the phone to people. But I don’t write or receive letters, real letters written on paper and sealed in an envelope.
My sisters write letters sometimes. They write them on special paper and stick them all over with colourful stickers. It’s a big event, writing and sending a letter. They run out to the post box to check if the main man has brought them anything, and there are squeals of excitement when there are letters.
But letter writing seems to be so rare now. Most people seem to write emails, or text messages. Letter writing doesn’t happen very much any more. To me, that’s a great pity. It was a big job to write a letter and get a stamp and send it, and it took a few days to get a letter back, but there was always something so special about getting a physical letter. Having an email pop into my inbox doesn’t have the same thrill as ripping open the back of an envelope.
There’s something special about writing a letter. There’s something special about receiving a letter. Letter writing is special art. I hope it doesn’t die out completely.