Today, I recieved a letter in the mail from an old friend.
A New Mexican who loves the stark and barren romance
of the landscape that envelops her.
The look of her hand-written script was as pleasing and artfully disheveled
as I remember her to be.
My eyes joyfully followed the line of letters and bold, punctuating marks
in their fervent effort to describe.
I could tell that she relished each stroke of that drugstore ballpoint pen.
The pressure, release and glide of it's crown
translating her mood as sensitively as an artist's sable-haired brush.
I wondered whether she realized, or cared
that every tenth word or so was illegible.
Causing the eye to stop and tumble over them.
Words that looked like balls of tangled thread.
Others like hastily written musical notations.
Or ancient Japanese calligraphy by the "Wild Sisters of Zen."
I was surprised by the intensity of my gratitude
for the drop of water or tear or tea that bled the ink
and curled the corner of the page.
This simple hand-written note.
Like a relic, a keepsake, a remembrance.
A true oddity among the daily scroll
of digital salutations.
The sage-scented sheet extended out like an invitation to a handshake.
A tactile way to bridge a distance seperating two friends.
A way to touch.