My letter writing has fallen by the wayside. Melissa sent me a letter two weeks ago and I have not even attempted to write a reply. I received it the day of my brother's accident, and I took it with me to the hospital to read in the waiting room. It disappeared shortly after this and the mystery was solved only when I received a large envelope in the mail, from the hospital, addressed to me.
I slit it open and out dropped the letter with Melissa's very attractive drawing of Assissi, along with a note. "Hello! You left this in the waiting room." Why, how kind of you to think of me.
Melissa's letters have a habit of getting lost. They go rummaging about on adventures and travel to all sorts of exciting locales, presumably hobnobbing with the rich and famous. I can think of no other reason why a simple letter would take five months to get to me. Last summer she sent me a letter from camp, which arrived in Sweden by the time I had left. My parents had to send it along, and I received it, perhaps ironically so, in America.
Now that I have purchased some green ink I hope to get back into old habits and bury someone in an avalanche of well-intentioned written communication and what have you.