My Letter Box

I have a letter box that contains practically all of the written correspondence I’ve had since high school. I keep as many birthday cards and thank you notes as I can remember to stash away. I keep every wedding announcement – even if I didn’t know the couple so well.

Yet of course there are the important things, like the original draft of a letter I sent once, that came as close to saying “I love you” as I could at the time. And the reply, still wrapped in the original red ribbon. I think his girlfriend must have picked it out. Read the letter. Tied the bow. I used to read it all the time. I tried to read it out loud once, to a friend, but couldn’t. My voice…cracks. That’s probably why when I felt that way for someone new, I couldn’t say it either. I wrote it in a letter. This time there was no mistake. It said, “I love you,” clear and true. Then again, do written words really say anything? I wish so, or that letter box is just a box.

I consider myself courageous, sometimes, for the things I’ve allowed myself to share through a box, an inbox. My friend once told me that the internet was like a refrigerator door, a place to look at memos and information at a glance. Except, my letters were an extension of that. My feelings, in words, and occasionally unrequited words, may as well have been that cold. I’m a great friend…like an industrial refrigerator, which is, essentially, a giant box.

I can’t write him the way I used to. And now that courage has nowhere to show itself. Oh, I could share it with those I don’t trust as much. But I don’t think they would understand. That’s where the courage has run. But I don’t want it hidden. I can’t stand it that way. Incredible moments, feelings, and ideas are not supposed to stay in my head, or my journal, or my inbox. I can’t hoard them away, and mix the powerful with the mundane like I do the notes inside my letter box. That deep red ribbon is of much more value than that pristine and glossy white one from that random wedding announcement.

More than the fear that people may misunderstand, I know, is the fear that they will not care to. The fear that to them I am really nothing more than a refrigerator door, with a memo that reminds them to get around to reading that book, eventually. Or to pick up batteries at the store. But they forget the errand nonetheless. Useless fears. I must encourage my courage to come out to play. Or else these words remain inside...my mind (a box), my heart (a box).