Letters from the Past

by Richard Ong

As I sat down to type this article on my laptop, I felt a pang of anxiety in the realization that I had lost something wonderful that I had taken for granted in my younger years. It was as if the ease of composition and formatting of words magically appearing in perfect alignment within the bright glow of the illuminated computer screen had somehow dehumanized us.

Gone were the days when we used to wait with breathless anticipation to the loud clang of the mailbox containing letters and postcards from afar. All that was left were reams of unwanted advertisements and the occasional bills that had not yet been converted online. Those wonderful, beautiful and carefully handwritten letters from friends became a curiosity of the past, patiently waiting to be rediscovered from inside this dusty shoebox I found in the attic. My heartbeat raced at the anticipation of what I’d find.

These orphaned letters triggered a long-forgotten yearning. My hand trembled as I gingerly wiped the fine white dust off the shoebox with a piece of cloth. I lifted the top and the years of adulthood peeled away to reveal the young man inside of me.

I opened the first letter and read. I found myself traveling back in time to 1984 and my best friend from school in the Philippines spoke to me across the seas to North America in a voice I remembered well from a time when I was still in elementary school. His handwriting changed in tune with his emotions as I read his letter. The tales and passion of his foolish romantic affairs forced the pen to drive hard indentations with a flourish on the back of the carefully folded piece of paper. I ran the tip of my fingers under the sheet and closed my eyes to feel his anger and frustration, his joy and laughter, like the subtle hum of a tuning fork penetrating my soul. I wiped the wetness from one eye and wondered what his life would have been all these years since then.

I picked up another letter from the shoebox and read the next missive. I felt myself jump forward in time to 1985. I stifled a smile at the faded photograph of my friend and English teacher back in Grade Six. She never stopped writing to me since we moved to Canada in 1980. She had the most elegant handwriting amongst all the letters in my collection. In spite of the political upheaval that affected her life and those of her students, she steadfastly prayed for my happiness, health and continued success. She was a ray of light shining through my correspondences. If I had the power to recommend someone for sainthood, it would be her.

Sadly, without any warning, I lost contact with my dear friend. My letters to her last known address were returned unopened. She was bubbly and eager to tell more in her last missive. I’d always wondered what happened to her. Was she more involved in that same political crisis she used to talk about than she was willing to let on? As I traced my finger across the imprint of her face at the only photograph that she ever sent to me, I found myself praying that somehow, somewhere, we’ll meet each other again in this lifetime.

Sifting further through the pile of letters, my heart leapt at the sight of a familiar purple envelope with the lavender seal sent to me when I was a freshman in college. The scent of the envelope had long since faded away, but the memory of Jeni Harada’s sweetness was forever engraved on her letters.

I could almost feel her hesitation as the words formed and were scratched out on paper concerning a particularly delicate subject matter. I didn’t have the courage to even write how I felt about her. Instead, we circled and parried against each other across the miles through the wit of our pens. I wooed her with my poetry and artwork. She refused to give in and tried to infuse me with sisterly love, but I wanted more.

I replayed the entire drama over and over again like a video tape recording. In the end, we grew apart as we each embarked on our working lives. These letters were all that I have left of her, moments of unspoken love frozen in time.

My dry and badly calloused fingers rummage through the last few chapters of my personal time machine. Several letters dropped from my lap, and I stooped down to pick up a painted art paper from Japan dating back to 1994. A kaleidoscope of red, blue and yellow depicted a subtle floral theme to the outer layers of a cover within which were revealed two distinct narratives from a couple halfway around the world.

My former co-worker at the university wrote long letters with a flourish. He described his near-Herculean efforts to maintain a balance between work and family life. He missed his international friends and longed to return to Canada for another chance to work with us.

His wife also wrote to me and expressed her strong desire to realize her dream of teaching English to Japanese students and in turn, Japanese culture to visiting residents from the West. She wondered whether her husband was really as busy as he wanted us to believe or whether “he only felt busy.” Each of them wrote with a distinct voice and handwriting that every mail I received felt like a conversation with this fun-loving couple from the Orient.

I sighed and leaned back to massage the back of my neck. Dawn was beginning to break in this now-early hour, and I still had an essay to write. The blinking cursor on the blank screen accused me of delaying the inevitable task at hand. I felt the last letter slip from my fingertips, and I looked down and stared at the haphazardly tossed pieces of paper around my chair. That’s when the idea for this article hit me.

Envelopes of varying colors and textures laid scattered on the floor of my work room. Each contained a message that never failed to bring laughter and tears, an irreplaceable essence I’d never find in any text message or email.

The nondescript shoebox from the attic contained artifacts from my own personal museum. It was a time capsule that froze moments in my life within the confines of my thoughts. The letters were undeniably a part of who I am today: memories of a bygone era; my letters from the past.