Letter writing is, unfortunately, a thing of the past just like the old car inside the ramshackle garage in today's photo. At one time I wrote often to my mother and children. My mother is gone and my children and I text now. Texting is, in my opinion, one of the worst ways to communicate. Still, it serves a purpose, quickly exchanging information as we rush through our busy days. Lacking the vocal inflections of a conversation either in person or over the phone, texts can easily be misinterpreted. There are a number of amusing text exchanges on Google, some hilarious, if you want to spend the time reading them. Texting mistakes are a given. Who hasn't had to deal with autocorrect disastrously changing a word or phrase? ARGH!
But letters . . . they take time. They force us to write in meaningful ways. My grandmother kept ancestral letters, one written in the early 1700's describing pioneer life in Ohio. The penmanship is beautiful, the writing artful. It is communication at it's finest.
In my poem, LETTERS, the 'letters' are like texts, brief and to the point.
Seek truth, stay curious, read always,
embrace hard things, accept
you will never know everything.
Love your children enough to say no,
enough to let them make mistakes.
Welcome them home with a fatted calf.
No parent is perfect, much less yours.
Remember them, forgive their mistakes.
Embrace them when they are feeble.
Anger destroys, humility restores,
tempers tinder, hearts are tender.
Be careful with your lover’s heart.
Can you learn the name of every star?
May you find the One upon
which all else depends.