Words are like kisses.
Once you say them there is no
taking them back. You can feed them to people, fool people with them.
You can make people float on air at the memory of them. They can give
people a very bad impression of you.
And with the most important ones...
There is always a risk in giving them.
***
I walk into the big main room and up the hard metal stairs to the break room where I toss my purse into a locker. Downstairs we unload the truck. Bags, boxes, more bags and more boxes. Invisible dirt grabs my gloved hands, soon making my fingers black. Unload the truck, sort boxes, sort boxes, and sort boxes, until someone tells me I can go on back and start pitching letters.
The mail room is my regime. I know the drill, I know what to do, and I don't do it half bad. Basically my job is to sort all the mail. Sort the first class mail, magazines, sort what needs to be forwarded and what needs to be thrown away. Perhaps my favorite chore is either finding forwarding addresses on the computer, or blacking out bar codes on the envelopes. Not because it's mentally challenging or anything, but it's the only job that gives my feet a rest. Other than that I pitch mail. I pitch and pitch and pitch.
Most of the letters are bills, advertisements or important information. But there are also hand written letters, letters with Elmo stickers on the outside, letters with elegantly handwritten addresses on them, and letters with childish scrawlings. Postcards are my favorite. We're not supposed to read them, but every once in a while I will glance at the short friendly things. They're sweet and warm to my eyes.
On the other side of the mail receptacles I hear people occasionally chatting to each other. There is a fairly constant jingle of locks as people open their boxes, then the soft swish of paper on metal which leaves an empty container. Just this afternoon I heard the swish sound and I quickly set another letter in the receptacle before it was shut again. The person took the letter and waited, but I had nothing else to give.
My feet ache and complain, cramped inside my tennis shoes. I stand awkwardly on one foot to try to make them less sore. And I keep sorting. As I sort I think of letters I have received. Treasured childhood letters, scraps of papers with kind words that I have kept over the years. I think of a letter sitting in my purse. Folded, white, with the words "Per Jessica" written in one corner; I'm not sure what it means to me.
Last Saturday when I first read the letter it made me light and happy. It was a huge surprise and I felt relieved. I smiled to myself and let my head fly to the clouds with the words inside. I kept the letter in my purse, every once in a while taking it out to reread, trying to piece together a reply. It was my proof that people are sometimes better than what their actions made them out to be.
But as I occasionally re-read the letter in the following week, my mood became melancholy. Something wrestled inside me, not content with what it had received. It wanted to sit and mope. Then the moping and self-pity turned to sarcastic mockery of everything in the letter. Though I was still grateful for it, I felt a certain disdain for the thing, even though I wasn't sure quiet why.
Yesterday after lunch I realized why.
At lunch I always go to the library. I eat a power bar during the 2 minute walk, then I go to my familiar shelf, pull down my current book "The Swan Thieves" by Elizabeth Kostova, and immerse myself in a strange world of unstable artists, lost doctors, and mysterious letters from the 1800's. Sometimes I lift my eyes from the pages and look around at the people around me, as if seeing them through new eyes. Sometimes something in the book randomly connects to my own reality, and I sit wondering about what I feel and think. Every once in a while I check my clock to make sure I'm on time.
Yesterday I was so caught up that I didn't look at my clock until it was a few minutes after 1, when I'm supposed to be back. I rushed up to leave, but my brain was still up in the clouds. As I hurried back my mind brought up a train station, a smiling face... It gave me a picture of a beautiful blue Mediterranean sea, a fairytale castle to wander through with balcony to look out over the ocean, a few gelato stops during the day... Exchanging sweet, daring glances and mischievous smiles.
Now all I have is a letter.
I sit down in a soft chair, grateful for the long awaited break. I take the letter out, along with my reply. I reread the words of the letter once again. The thing is... in real life the words he said were so much different. Those words spoken aloud gave me the image of the castle, the train and the seaside. They made me feel radiant and alive. But these words in my hand... though they are beautiful, they are flat and dry. They promise nothing. There is a note of bittersweetness all throughout the letter. It is signed and dated, and I can see why he considers himself a poet.
I next reach towards my own response. My words, though different, reflect his. They are bittersweet, accepting, and noncommittal. Empty, and without meaning. But also a peace offering.
Yesterday I took those words off that very paper and typed them into the cold hard computer. I clicked a button. They were then dissected, translated into numbers and symbols, then pieced back together on another screen. Hard and cold with no soft limber sheets to rub between fingers. Not warm and alive, but said and let be.
Today I will go home from work and play on my piano. I will write beautiful lyrics filled with heart and soul. I will feel alive and happy. There will be no room for emptiness or indifference.
Hundreds of letters come through the post office every day. I sort them hour after hour. Few letters have meaningful words from friends or family. Most of them will probably end up being thrown away in the trash bin. Heartfelt letters make me smile. I imagine the friendly words inside, the love that went into each stroke of the pen. I haven't sent a letter in a long time. This weekend I will be sending some out. No hard, bright computer screens, but soft flexible paper to rub between fingers.
***
Words are like kisses.
Once you say them there is no
taking them back. You can feed them to people, fool people with them.
You can make people float on air at the memory of them. They can give
people a very bad impression of you.
And with the most important ones...
There is always a risk in giving them.
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