“To write a letter is human, to receive a letter, divine”
Four years ago, I downsized. Living in an apartment house, I am now part of a community, not a formal one, but one with a passing hello in the lobby or weather conversation in the elevator. However, it was my relationship with our fifth-floor neighbor that went beyond the hello and the weather. Meg was of an earlier generation, there was no computer in her home and only the most basic of cell phones. In lieu of these items were plenty of paper and pen.
Given the generational gap, Meg was a woman of notes. Invariably, they would be slipped under our kitchen door. They varied in nature, telling us she would be visiting family, wishing us a happy Thanksgiving or my favorite, letting me know how much she enjoyed looking at my hanging geraniums that she could see from her living room window. In our three years as neighbors, I left my computer and iPhone behind. From my side of the hallway, it was a note thanking her for taking in our newspapers or a holiday card with an accompanying note. There was something so special about our across the hall communication. These notes were acts of thoughtfulness. Sometimes on a random piece of paper or other times on a real piece of stationery, especially when Meg’s birthday rolled around. The common characteristic that each of our exchanged notes shared was gratitude.
As much as I delighted in having Meg across the hall, I knew that a woman approaching her ninetieth birthday with an array of minor health problems, should not be living alone. Her children, also knew this. Meg would tell me in her soft voice, that while she understood the logic of a move to assisted living, she was saddened to leave her beloved New Rochelle where she was born and raised her family. Inevitably, acceptance trumped resistance. We had said our good-byes many times, voicing how fortunate we both were to have each other as neighbors. I returned home one day, the wreath that changed with the season was off Meg’s door and Meg was gone.
In the weeks following Meg’s move, I sent a note, bringing her up to date on what was going on with my family and inquiring about how she was doing. In return, I received a lovely card from Meg. A few brief sentences, with her ever-thoughtful sentiments.
Quoting Phyllis Theroux, a writer based in California: “to write a letter is a good way to go somewhere without moving anything but your heart.” In these times of COVID-19, where going anywhere is done with an abundance of caution or not at all, a note not only moves the heart but let’s those we care about know they are remembered.