My brother went to a prestigious military college when I was still in the 8th grade and home schooled.  The first week –they called it Hell Week–was supposed to be the hardest. In retrospect we all know now it was one of the easiest for him because it was all physical.  The mental games that came with the rest of the four years drained him more than being worked out all day.  He could take that any time. 

Hell week I wrote Andrew a letter, but I never sent it.  I wrote a new one the next week and sent that.  I don’t know why I didn’t send the first letter, it is still folded up in a box in my room.  I guess there was something new to be said, and that’s why I wrote a new one.

But the reason for a letter, not an email which he would have gotten immediately and been able to reply immediately, was because that was too easy.

There is something special about the care of a personal letter.  It takes longer to write- there must be care in penmanship and spelling- although I usually fail at the latter anyway-writing is more personal.  When hearing the stories about how harsh the environment was I wanted my letters to provide a fun kind of get away from the dismal situation Andrew found himself in.

I wrote my letters in glittery gel pens and on pink stationary.  I flourished his name on the envelope and sometimes sent pictures of our cat, Moses.  Each letter penned seems to have an emotion and meaning, and you never sign your name the same way twice.

I also began writing his friends, paying as much attention to the flourishes, and enjoyed the feed back that I’d get from the guys I wrote.  One of Andrew’s friend’s told me the glitter got all over his hands and that other guys would tease him about it.

They always thanked me, but only a few wrote a couple letters back.  I still have every one of them.  They are precious to me because someone took the time to craft out the thoughts and and words onto a page and walk down to a mailbox.  Often I wondered if my letters really meant something to them.  If the glittery pens and the silly pink stationary did bring them out of the sometimes dismal situations of the everyday away from the comforts of home.

My mother came home one day about a year ago and told me she had run into a family friend, whose son I had written while he was in college.  She told my mother that she was clearing out some old boxes and she found a huge stack of letters- all from me.
He had saved them all.

Often when I tell people that I wrote my brother’s friends they will ask me if I was in love with them.  I wasn’t.  I wrote them in the hopes it would brighten a rainy day.  And the fact that Andrew’s friend had saved my letters was a realization that my letters had served the purpose I had wanted.  And I am contented.