I suppose you could say that we have this connection.
Something invisible—strings, stretched across great distances, over mountains
and streams, through trees and bramble. J and I stumbled across each other on the
internet, years ago. Both metalsmiths, we admired each other’s work from afar.
I think what broke the ice were pictures of her dogs—German Shorthaired
Pointers—the same kind I grew up with. We both gradually started reaching out
via email—little fragments of touch. Little bits of information, sharing, and
kindness. That gradually turned into letters of the more tangible sort, written
in sprawling cursive (from her), or scribbly print (from me). Over the years we
have maintained two almost separate conversations—one via email, and one via
snail mail. In addition, there have been
splendid little gifts, packages, and love sent between us. We have yet to meet,
yet to even hold a phone conversation (we both laugh that we are completely dorky
and shy), but our love and admiration of each other continues.
So how is it, that something could possibly intercept this
correspondence? This past summer was a doozy for me, and although I did my best
to let all parties know of our move in July, somehow I didn’t let J know. Or it
got missed, caught in the wind. As weeks and months passed, I hadn’t received
one little letter from her, and began to wonder. I’d sent emails, which was as
much as my schedule would allow. But part of me started wondering if somehow
our friendship was waning—it was so unlike her to not send a postcard or letter
of some sort.
And then, a week ago, I got a text asking if I had received
the package she sent.
I had not.
Heartbroken, we both thought it must have been stolen—the delivery
confirmation said it was delivered a full week prior! Over email she sent the delivery
information and as I read it, I realized something: the package had been
delivered to zip code 97206. My old address!! There was hope!
Dave and I adventured over to our old apartment, me ready
with a blank card to write on should no one be home.
No one was home.
I left a note for the tenants and hoped against hope that
they were good people and would contact me to return my mail. In a few days’ time,
one of the new tenants did. I set up a time, and collected my mail—letters from
months past, and a wonderful package full of sweet treasures—each one touching
my heart. I couldn’t wait to open the letters—Dave chatting along in the car as
we drove, with me absorbed in words and events that I had missed. I felt so
grateful and yet so sorrowful that I had missed these things—her husband being
away for far too long on a job, her dog getting sick and almost dying, all
those questions and inquiries and adventures…
And then, when I got home, I opened the package. There were
layers of love—layers of tea, little packages filled with treasures, a
beautiful painting which now sits on my bench as a friendly reminder, a
beautiful mug, an antler, and little letters, again. It was so beautiful, so
touching, that I actually called her and left a message—only the second time in
two years.
I am now working on writing back to all of those letters.
She will get a book of a letter, and many little treasures that I have been
collecting for her as well. I joked, during our litany of text messages, that
this would make a wonderful romantic comedy if we were a man and woman. Instead
it is simply a sweet story of missed connections between two people who
maintain a friendship through distance, trials, and triumphs.
CONVERSATION