“Happy birthday sister”. That card is still tilted against the wall in front of my desk, as I write this post. I’m always torn between throwing them away and keeping them for my own viewing pleasure weeks, months, heck, even years after that birthday has passed. Consequently you can imagine the filled-to-the-rim shoe boxes of birthday cards I have accumulated.
I get very nostalgic; it’s not often that someone writes for you. It’s texts,or Facebook messaging, or ‘snapchatting’ (which I do a bit too much I will admit). But what about the letters? Where have the handwritten postcards gone? And the post-it notes you leave on the fridge? I don’t even see them anymore. It’s so lovely and characterful to read someone’s words in their own writing. With each swish, and flick, and curl of their lettering. With each illegible word that can only be read whilst squinting closely at the paper. With each messy scrawl, or cursive masterpiece written down just for you, there is a whole different richness, body, and personality to someone’s writing. Something that a simple text message cannot convey.