“This is not a hat!”, the note said. The card was handmade. A little red house in the woods and sweet words from my mom and dad.
The birds have been pecking at the saddle of my bike. I unwrapped the tiny package to find a lovely patchwork saddle cover my mom sewed for my birthday.
It made my day.
Many years ago I was reading Sophie’s World. I remember being very intrigued by this little detail, the fact that Sophie opened her mailbox by lifting a lid. In France, where I lived, mailboxes had doors. It was funny for me to understand, years later, after moving to Scandinavia. “Oh, that’s why! That’s how Sophie’s mailbox looked like!”.
Random, insignificant details to you. A reminder, to me, of how incredibly important mailboxes have been in my life. I often think about these times when all the mailman ever brought me was long handwritten letters from dear friends. How I treasure these memories!
The day before my birthday I went to the mailbox with a lump in my throat and lifted the lid wondering what administrative hassle was waiting there this time. But there was no dull grown-up mail. There was a package from a lifelong pen pal and friend.
It was a soft, cozy scarf. I thought, “oh, funny how it exactly matches the sweater I’m wearing today!”. It was a cute little pouch – well, exactly the kind of pouches I like. In her letter, my friend asked for my indulgence, saying she was still learning to sew. She was being very modest, but anyway, I was barely reading, busy as I was jumping for joy. Again.
You know me well, people. Thank you!