How To Open Your Mail, And Why

This morning I woke up with an awful cold. Stacked at the foot of my bed are the boxes of Christmas presents I received the mail, but I don't really need anything right now except the familiar handwriting on the outside of the packages. Maybe -- no, probably -- I won't get around to opening these presents until January comes.

But on the most inaccessible shelf in my closet I have a box filled with over one hundred and eighty old letters. These I received in 1994, the year I taught English in China. I was in the Peace Corps, and oh! I was lonely; a letter filled my life with a glory so bright I could run miles on this feeling, I could practically eat it. Just about every other day, then, in my p.o. box, I found sustenance. But sometimes there'd be stretches when no letters came and each passing day was like the interior of my empty p.o. box: gray and gloomy and small. After one of these stretches, though, maybe five letters would arrive at once and I'd tear them open, one at a time, standing there in front of my p.o. box, a glutton, a crazy person, laughing aloud, tears rolling down my face. Then I'd fold them up and slip them back into their envelopes. In a teahouse I'd read them again, more intently this time, and every interruption was unbearably annoying. When I was finished I'd tuck the letters into the secret pocket inside my jacket and, as the rest of the day passed, I'd think about what they contained and feel their edges. Later, at bedtime, I'd read them once more and then I'd write something back to him, something to make him smile at odd times.

The person who sent those letters is gone, and in his place a new man. Now, he writes to me in a shaky hand I can barely read, about matters I don't understand. This new man seems, at times, to be pleading with me, and at other times he's apologizing for things he never did. And now, I can't reread those old letters he sent to China. It's just too painful. That's what love has done to me.

It's started to rain and I have a pot of coffee going and toast in the toaster. I'm not too sick to get out of bed. I know a place down the street from work where I can buy a hot cup of soup. On mornings like this, that's sustenance enough. It has to be.

Friends, I'll open your gifts which yes, have arrived safely. In time, I'll open them up. The ones I packaged up for you are still on the way.