I like writing letters.
There is something about them. It is hard to explain, but maybe it is my way of rebelling against the ever-growing influence of technology in our lives. The fresh smell of crisp paper and the smoothness of a fountain pen forming words, it is, like I said, hard to explain.
But letters need destinations otherwise what is the point?
I hated my handwriting. I wanted to write nicely but I couldn’t so I just typed emails to him. He always replied, complaining, that he misses my hand written letters.
“Why don’t you write letters to me.”
“Because I don’t like my handwriting”, I would say.
“You are writing letters for me, not for yourself. You have no say in that matter. Your hand written words are the most beautiful thing in the world here. They are better than the calligraphic manuscripts of Persia and whole of Syria.” It was his way. Assert and Praise. Rattle and sedate.
“You can’t even lie properly. Ok, I will write a letter next time ok? “
“You better.”
If only I knew there wasn’t going to be a next time.
That was the last I heard from him. They said he had gone from the base quarters to the front with the rest of the company. I wrote and wrote, but there was only silence in response.
The silence broke the day they delivered those letters back to me with a flag-covered body.
He would often say I didn’t complain like most people would. I told him that I only complained to myself and then I reprimanded myself for all the whining I did, and logic always won in this back and forth war of thoughts.
“It will kill you, keeping all that inside you”, he would lean in.
If only I knew it wasn’t going to be me. I complained of the first and last time to God that day.
“Why”? I looked heavenwards.
I still haven’t gotten any response to that. I guess disappointments are his way of telling us that we are not in control. He controls what is ‘next’.
You can’t have closure with God. No.
I thought love was good enough reason for it otherwise what is the point?
I wonder…
