Correspondents

I read a book called The Correspondent, which is about an old crochety lady who writes a lot of letters. The book is told through the letters, and over the course of the story, you get a feel for this person and her life, what she chooses to reveal and what she doesn’t, and somehow at the end of the book you’re crying. Meanwhile, I was shedding my old correspondence. 

I realized while I was doing this that I am an old crochety lady who wrote a lot of letters. I don’t have any of these letters though. What I have are all the letters that people wrote to me. They were overwhelming me in a huge bin, one half of dozens of different conversations taking place, some of them, thirty or forty years ago. These letters moved with me from college, to my first apartment, to one house after another, and now, I find myself with the time and in the right mental space to sort through them. 

The first thing that struck me about these letters is how private and personal they are. Not about me at all, but a fascinating glimpse into the letter writer, a snapshot of what was going on in their lives, almost like little time capsules. 

For example, a high school friend who wrote about his freshmen year in college, describing his roommate and what his classes were like and how he much he loved the new musical group Wham. My high school English teacher who mentioned that he wasn’t sure he wanted to teach anymore. A former student who was struggling to fit in at a new school. 

I immediately wanted to reach out to these people and ask them if they’d like me to return their letters. Which has led to some interesting new correspondence. One of my former students, when I reached out over Facebook messenger, thought I was a scammer. How do I know this is you, she asked, when I mentioned I’d found a stash of her letters. 

I sent her a picture of the stash. Identity confirmed, we caught up. She had no memory of writing to me and asked if I had written to her. I said, I have no idea, but I must have. I realized as we were messaging each other that she wasn’t the teen girl I was picturing, but someone who is almost fifty years old. 

Some of these people I can’t reach out to. They’ve died. Or we’ve completely lost touch, and I wouldn’t begin to know how to track them down. Or, maybe I don’t want to track them down. An ex-boyfriend? Meh. Never mind. Some letters, I confess, I tore up because they were too painful to read, and I know I would never want to revisit them again. Another confession: some letters were kind of boring, and I don’t think the correspondent would care that I tossed them. 

One of my old friends said he wasn’t sure he’d want to see his old letters. He said, Do I really want to remember my eighteen-year-old self? But then he added that he had saved all of my letters. He said, Would you like me to send them to you? 

Sure! I told him. We were having this conversation over email. I wrote, Let’s set up a time to chat! I would love to catch up!

He responded with a long, lovely email, then ended it by admitting that he didn’t really like talking on the phone. This is a person I have known for almost forty years, and I had never known this about him. 

It struck me that we had begun a new correspondence. I wrote him back.