Opening the mailbox and finding a letter inside always gives me a rush. It doesn't matter so much who the letter is from - what matters, is that someone cares enough to sit down and think about me for the time it takes to put pen to paper. It's personal. It's intimate.
I miss the feel of the paper, the smell of the ink, and the ability to re-read the words in private.
I miss the days when my mailbox offered more than junk mail, when it was likely there'd be a letter, written on thin blue stationary in cursive writing and signed with love.
I miss that...