I miss letters, thank you letters, just saying hello, pen pal and above all Love Letters.
I miss letters written with a real pen, on paper. Letters, scented or otherwise, placed lovingly into an envelope. Letters addressed from memory and very possibly sealed with a kiss.
I miss anticipating the postman. I miss recognising the colour of the envelope, the handwriting and the news those sheets conveyed.
I miss the longing and wondering when I will receive a reply. Today’s text, instant messaging and email just isn’t the same. I see my son with Instagram and Snapchat, a love affair in pictures but it’s not crafted and pondered. It’s not the news of everyday life, censored for pleasure.
I miss carefully selecting the perfect postcard. The one that will reveal the perfect hidden message. The message that says I was in Paris, London, Prague or Dar es Salaam and at this place I loved you, missed you and thought of you!
The message from all those places the same, an address to a country far away from home and four letters – AFBD!
A message from Africa, from a girl who would never stop loving despite the life that actually happened.
I miss wondering if the sand I steeped on in Zanzibar would somehow find its way to your feet a thousand miles away.
I miss trying to decipher the acronym that always signaled the completion of the letter and shamefully I admit that I never really understood what they meant and was too insecure to ask.
I miss adding the tome to the beloved bundle of letters tied together with a pale blue velvet ribbon, kept in a shoe box stored in the bottom of my wardrobe along with souvenirs, a cork, a pressed rose, an invitation and a scribbled poem.
Or maybe, I just miss you.