I'm getting letters.
Asking where the letters are.
Let's just say I'm a bit behind with my correspondence. Not good for someone who bills herself as a letter writer. (See that bit of puffery on the right-hand side of this page, just above the Nancy postage stamp?)
I have a satchel full of excuses. I even have a little beaded coin purse in which a couple of legitimate reasons are clinking together, making merry in the dark. But when I look in my stamp drawer and see the meticulously cared-for bonsai, the folksy bouquet, a swampy landscape and those 10 poets' omniscient faces, I'm reminded of the real faces peering into empty postboxes, expecting to find a letter that not only isn't there, but isn't even on its way to being there.
The check's in the mail, the old joke goes. To those of you who've sent out the needle (you know who you are) and to those of you who wish you had, let me say this: The letter's in the mail. And that's no joke.
Nancy Carol Moody
I'm a poet and a letter-writer. Yup, that kind. The kind who uses pens and paper and actual stamps. The kind who will leave the house with nothing on the agenda but to get to the mailbox before the scheduled pick-up time. The kind who understands that technology is a wondrous thing, but nothing quite beats finding a real letter with a real stamp on it amid the credit card solicitations, pizza coupons and seminar catalogs.