Mail

              I hear the mail truck idling outside. I used to send and receive a lot of letters: nearly 500 in and 500 out over the past two and half years. I have pen-pals and participate in mail-art swaps. I have friends who send me postcards and presents out of the blue. Some people I correspond with almost weekly. Seeing Tracy’s decorated envelopes, or Vanessa’s curly script, or Abe’s tiny fine-point print, or Richard’s beautiful fountain pen penmanship, and the creative efforts of countless others always cheers me. The sound of the mail truck used to be a happy sound: what goodies arrived for me today!

              But now? Nobody is mailing anything. Via email, I have “full-disclosure-d” the situation here to all of my on-paper friends, and until my husband gets a negative test result, (or until the world gets normal again—whichever comes first,) not many people want to take a chance on a germy letter from me. I totally get it. Two months ago, I received a letter swap from Singapore. The first sentence was, “Sorry for the delay, but things are pretty crazy here with the Coronavirus.” I held that letter by two fingers and grimaced. I held my breath and put it in the bin. Outside. Logically, biologically, I know that a virus can’t survive a journey that long on paper, and the envelope didn’t contain any white powder or anything, but still. I had visions of being Patient Zero, with the headline: Pen-Pal brings Pandemic to Affluent Suburb. That seems so long ago, and the headlines since then have been just as weird. Now all that’s in my mailbox are ads for Tuff Lawn or replacement windows, and it’s not even worth the walk down the path. I miss getting letters. I miss writing on paper and reading on paper. Typing is not the same. I miss hearing from my pals. More social distance, this time by mail.