I received a letter from Joan yesterday, whom many of you know. She is doing well in her time away from us. I doubt now she will return. Why would she?
I wrote her a letter back and placed it in my mailbox just now. It seems so civilized somehow, though she won't know what I said for many days, but I find myself with the breath as I contemplate her reading my words and enjoying my card, and perhaps immediately sitting down to write back to me. We don't write letters very often anymore. It seems unnecessary, superfluous, when we can instantly gratify with email and yet I feel a sense of satisfaction in having her words here on paper and knowing mine will fly through the air to get to her.
I am pleased, as though brewed with fine tea.