Lost Words

#194: Dear Stranger



















There was a time we used to write each other. Long letters. Short notes. Postcards. Scribbles on scratch papers. Poems on notepads. Turtles on dog-eared corners of books. A series of dots on LCD screens. Melting. Wrenching. Warming.

And I would find them in my Inbox with a short subject like "hi." Or a silly one like "Heinz." They would be on my table. Passed from one hand to the next. Or tucked amidst pages of borrowed books. On yellow post-its. Attached to boxes of cinnamon pretzels or bars of white chocolate. Or flowers. Or wishes.

You would write them on my back and I would write them on yours. The words would find their way to my palms, on my lips. As chuckles or whispers. Then back to my pen or keyboard as replies. With smileys. Without. With color. With captions. With calligraphy. With capital letters. Or not.

And the strokes on the pages, virtual or not, would come alive with glimpses of who you are. Or who you were. More or less of a stranger than who you are now.

The stranger and I used to write.