It almost feels like a dare. Like I’ve been dared to show my underpants.
Mine is hard to nail down, and always comes with memories of grade school. Years of teachers scolding me because it was messy, illegible. Years of painfully doing homework and trying so hard to control the pencil. Failing.
Sometimes it’s loopy and rather girly. Sometimes it’s slanty and has extra bits and tails hanging off. Usually it’s a weird mix of cursive and print. I prefer the look of my printing, but my laziness connects the letters and the cursive sneaks in.
Every time I pick up a pen I feel out of practice. Like I have to remember how to do it, which is why it feels important when I write something down.
It’s worth more than my digital notes typed in to my phone. Text messages, email, calendar entries. They’re all digital.
Hand written notes? Much more deliberate and personal. A tangible bit of my thoughts down on a piece of paper you can hold and carry with you.
I found this card on top of our fridge here in Brazil. I gave it to B three years ago. I remember writing it, and mailing it from the States with my fingers crossed that it would actually get to him all the way in Brazil. That it wouldn’t go missing in the tangle and mess of international mail.
Three years ago, before we talked of marriage, but were so madly in love with each other. So far away from each other. Thousands of miles apart, but always on each other’s minds. A bond out of nowhere that caught us both by surprise and was too strong to give up on, even from five thousand miles away.
He kept it.
He is not a romantic. Not overly sentimental. He doesn’t keep anything.
He kept the card.