I just don’t understand the whole White vs. Black vs. White vs. Black issue. Maybe I missed the ‘hate everyone who’s different from yourself’ memo while growing-up. Being sick and tired of all this hatred, I thought I’d share an old story from my past, which has a strange, unfortunate twist. Continue reading Catfish
I’m not a text person or a tweet person, having never really done either before. Today, I got to spend some quality time with my buddy Michael. Just like his Dad and myself as teens, we had gone months without communicating, but then side by side, we spoke to each other like it was just yesterday. It felt good.
Buried on a shelf, behind the door of an unused closet, lies an old beat-up jewelry box.
The box itself was very unassuming. A faded pale blue with a simple gold embroidery, the cushy feel of padding like those mass-produced in the 60’s and 70’s. But with a lift of the unlatched lid, a thousand thoughts and emotions poured out of the jewelry box, causing his head to spin and his heart to flutter.
The jewelry box was crammed full of letters written by his first love, handwritten memories on crinkled paper, some still nestled in their original envelopes. What started as ‘Puppy Love’ had developed over time, as did the length and complexity of the letters themselves.
If the pile of letters, now shuffled like a huge deck of cards, were laid out from the very first kiss until the present day, they would tell the wonderful tale of a young love blossoming into maturity, the pains of separating after adulthood, and a final chapter that would never end, instead a friendship that would last forever.
There’s something warm and comforting, so personal, in holding a piece of paper on which is written the thoughts and feelings of someone who means so much to you, and whose style of script you’ll never forget. It’s like having that person sitting beside you, though they’re not apart of your life or maybe never will be again, but they’ll never be gone forever.
Behind the creation of each letter, she had searched for an ink pen and a piece of paper, and had spilled-out her emotions with wet ink on a plain piece of paper.
Holding each handwritten letter with his own hands, reading each and every word she had written, he could clearly hear her voice.
And the jewelry box was placed back upon on the shelf.