Letters

I just read this article and thought it was lovely

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2011/dec/24/my-mothers-notebook-christmas-past

It's about a man whose mother wrote a list of every Christmas present she gave over fifty odd years. The pleasure of it, of course, isn't the contents of the list itself as much as the memories it evokes.

I have no such list in my family. Our Christmas lists are scribbled on the back of envelopes or on little pieces of paper that get stuck at the bottom of a disused handbag or fall out of a pocket in a shop. What I do have though are letters from my Nan.

I moved away from England when I was nine, but it wasn't until I was in my late teens, early twenties that I began to correspond with my Nan on a regular basis. It came after she'd gone to the considerable expense and frustration of buying a computer and trying to learn how to email. When her Internet service went down for the thousandth time we decided it might be better to return to the pen.

There is something delightfully old fashioned about receiving a letter in the post. My Nan and I would often share our news on the phone every few days but the letters would contain little anecdotes that had slipped her mind, or would take place over days, being put down and picked up again after she'd finished the crossword or left to get her hair done.

I still have most of the letters. They have been used as bookmarks or have been tidied away. I occasionally open a draw and discover another one where she vents her frustrations with the weather or the lack of decent clothing at Marks & Spencers. All these things are tiny insights into her and her life and every time I read them (and reread them) I am reminded of the smell of her perfume, the way she would sweep into a room and how she would sing along to the radio when she thought no one was listening.

The last letter I received from my Nan wasn't in her writing. It was on the lurid turquoise stationary I have bought for her a month before and was written by an unfamiliarly neat hand. The voice was hers though, as was the humor . The last five lines were filled up with X's that trailed down the page in a triangle.

My Nan passed away in October of last year and tomorrow will be our second Christmas without her. This is the second year I haven't received a suitably mushy card from her, signed for both herself and my Granddad in her loopy writing. I have a gift tag on my mirror from a few Christmas's ago. It was something to throw away before, something she had probably scribbled on as we all woke up on Christmas morning. I probably didn't seem important to me then, but it is now.

The last letter I wrote to my Nan was stuffed inside the turquoise stationary box and was brought back from the hospital with the rest of her belongings. It sat on her dressing table for a while but has since been tucked away in a drawer or cupboard. Funnily enough it was that letter I find impossible to reread. When it does resurface it may be by someone else entirely.

Beyond all the books, necklaces and clothes she gave me over the years, her handwriting is the one thing I hold dearest. Like the author of the article I imagine it would be one of the few things I would grab if I needed to make a quick exit. Handwriting does more than tell you what a person was doing on one particular day, it shows you that they existed, and no matter how memories fade or how many photo's get lost, that person and their personality will never truly disappear. Well, that's what I think anyway.