Last night I finally wrote a letter to my pen pal Haya in Ontario, which I’d been putting aside for a month. This morning, on my walk, I took the letter along and stopped at the Canada Post box at the Community Guest Home, the one where I mail most of my letters, since it’s the closest one to my house.
There is something so physical and real about mailing a letter, so much more than clicking “Send” on an email. I love holding the real letter, for one thing, the paper texture, the thickness of the papers inside, the handwritten addresses, any decorations. And I love opening the heavy metal door, putting the letter in, shutting it closed with a clang. And I always open it up again to check and make sure the envelope went down into the box.