The Shoebox In The Closet
Handwritten Notes
It’s 6am and I’m half dressed for the gym, staring at a pile of unopened envelopes. It’s just mail. Although the bright pink and shiny silver ones are clearly junk, there’s one with my name in cursive, clearly inked by a pen, and not a machine. My good friend, who remembers important moments, never sends certain wishes and thoughts through text. She likes to write them instead. That gesture always leaves my heart and spirit with an extra boost of joy.
I place it in my shoebox.
Sprawled across the floor with a poster of Tevin Campbell as my inspiration, 12 year old me wrote her second love letter. The first was in kindergarten to Andre Carmichael who never received it because I saw him kissing a girl in the class coatroom. My third letter was to my brother after he’d moved to Chicago to chase his dreams. These are all fond memories.
I placed them in my shoebox.
There’s an art to connection, and to romance, and to bonding. An aspect of it can be found in the grip of a pen, outpouring onto paper, from a mind that’s thinking of you.
My shoebox is waiting.
