ANOTHER LOST TREASURE It was a balmy Saturday afternoon when the postman delivered the mail. He had been knocking on the gate patiently until the maid walked over to pick up a wad of envelopes from his pack. After sorting through bills and unwanted mail, the maid pulled out an envelope made of fine, almost translucent linen paper. My name was written in dark blue India ink in beautiful cursive. It was from a boy I knew. I was 15 years old.
Nearly every afternoon, at least three boys would come to our house to spend a couple of hours with me. They were not from my school or neighborhood. They had to take public transportation to get to my house which, in some cases, was not a pleasant endeavor considering the sultry heat of Manila, the dust and the crazy traffic on narrow roads. Sometimes, they came with little gifts or trinkets. Most of the time, they came unannounced just for a chance to be with me. Back then, in the mid-seventies, this was how boys went "courting".
Courting. That word is so seldom used in this day and age. It almost seems archaic. But I always had a gaggle of boys trying to win my favor. It was a delightful time.
Cellphones and email are now the de riguer ways to communicate and texting has replaced the fine art of letter-writing. It's a cold and metallic way to curry favor. No one really knows the context of the texts. They're always short and abrupt. Most of all, emotionless. In order to soften the harshness, people can add emoticons---icons that express emotions. It's all so...contrived. I am not sure that my children---especially my daughters---will experience the joy and exhilaration of receiving love letters. It would be such a shame if this were indeed, true.
As soon as I saw the name of the boy on the return address, I was taken aback. Why would he write to me? I never thought he was interested in me. So I took my best letter opener and carefully pried the envelope flap open. I pulled out four pages of crisp vellum paper with hand-written cursive beautifully done with an old fashioned fountain pen.
My dearest one.
His first three wonderful words and my heart already melted. He spoke of wonderful things-- how he yearns for me and how he longs to hear my voice everyday. He described how he feels everytime he sees me and talks to me. He tells me how he treasures every moment with me. He confesses that he took my handkerchief and how it smells of my perfume. He keeps it in his pocket wherever he goes. He tells me I'm the most beautiful girl he has ever seen and that when I sing and play my guitar, he feels as though he were in a trance. He writes about his jealous moments when he sees me talking to another boy or when I pay too much attention to this boy and the other. He reveals his dreams, his fears and his hopes. He tells me that he adores me. And finally, he professes that he is inlove with me.
I remember the beating of my heart as I read his sentences over and over. I purposely read each word slowly, digesting every meaning, every essence, every substance. My knees begin to weaken and I feel my lips begin to tingle. I get dizzy. I mistake my hyperventilating for swooning because I really do feel like fainting. My emotions run high. And then he quotes Jose Garcia Villa:
How could I essay the intensity of my love when silence speaks a more eloquent tone. But perhaps you didn't understand. Remember I came because the gnawing loneliness is there and will be lost until the music is sung...until the poem is heard...until you come to me again. For you alone can blend music and memory into one consuming ecstasy. You alone.
He then ends the letter with an affirmation of his love and longing. I remember how my hands were shaking and tears began to run down my cheeks...not because I felt the same way but because the words he wrote were powerful and earnest. Well, and also I felt a sense of loneliness for him because beautiful as his words may have been, I could not reciprocate his feelings at that time. But he impressed me and I never forgot that moment. Obviously.
These are words that cannot be texted on a cellphone. And these are words that carry only emptiness on email. There is something to be said about a handwritten letter--there is power in every curve, every mistake, every squiggle. At times the pen seems literally heavy. At times, the handwriting is dainty. At times it can be deliberate and at times, wanton. Then there is the choice of paper or stationery. Or ink. Sometimes a scent. There was even a time when placing the stamp upside down meant something.
The wonder of the handwritten note is a treasure of communication and human interaction that is valuable...even priceless during these days of electronic messaging. It is a lost art that I wish would have a revival. But a serious revival. For the sake of the future, I sure hope so.
Nearly every afternoon, at least three boys would come to our house to spend a couple of hours with me. They were not from my school or neighborhood. They had to take public transportation to get to my house which, in some cases, was not a pleasant endeavor considering the sultry heat of Manila, the dust and the crazy traffic on narrow roads. Sometimes, they came with little gifts or trinkets. Most of the time, they came unannounced just for a chance to be with me. Back then, in the mid-seventies, this was how boys went "courting".
Courting. That word is so seldom used in this day and age. It almost seems archaic. But I always had a gaggle of boys trying to win my favor. It was a delightful time.
Cellphones and email are now the de riguer ways to communicate and texting has replaced the fine art of letter-writing. It's a cold and metallic way to curry favor. No one really knows the context of the texts. They're always short and abrupt. Most of all, emotionless. In order to soften the harshness, people can add emoticons---icons that express emotions. It's all so...contrived. I am not sure that my children---especially my daughters---will experience the joy and exhilaration of receiving love letters. It would be such a shame if this were indeed, true.
As soon as I saw the name of the boy on the return address, I was taken aback. Why would he write to me? I never thought he was interested in me. So I took my best letter opener and carefully pried the envelope flap open. I pulled out four pages of crisp vellum paper with hand-written cursive beautifully done with an old fashioned fountain pen.
My dearest one.
His first three wonderful words and my heart already melted. He spoke of wonderful things-- how he yearns for me and how he longs to hear my voice everyday. He described how he feels everytime he sees me and talks to me. He tells me how he treasures every moment with me. He confesses that he took my handkerchief and how it smells of my perfume. He keeps it in his pocket wherever he goes. He tells me I'm the most beautiful girl he has ever seen and that when I sing and play my guitar, he feels as though he were in a trance. He writes about his jealous moments when he sees me talking to another boy or when I pay too much attention to this boy and the other. He reveals his dreams, his fears and his hopes. He tells me that he adores me. And finally, he professes that he is inlove with me.
I remember the beating of my heart as I read his sentences over and over. I purposely read each word slowly, digesting every meaning, every essence, every substance. My knees begin to weaken and I feel my lips begin to tingle. I get dizzy. I mistake my hyperventilating for swooning because I really do feel like fainting. My emotions run high. And then he quotes Jose Garcia Villa:
How could I essay the intensity of my love when silence speaks a more eloquent tone. But perhaps you didn't understand. Remember I came because the gnawing loneliness is there and will be lost until the music is sung...until the poem is heard...until you come to me again. For you alone can blend music and memory into one consuming ecstasy. You alone.
He then ends the letter with an affirmation of his love and longing. I remember how my hands were shaking and tears began to run down my cheeks...not because I felt the same way but because the words he wrote were powerful and earnest. Well, and also I felt a sense of loneliness for him because beautiful as his words may have been, I could not reciprocate his feelings at that time. But he impressed me and I never forgot that moment. Obviously.
These are words that cannot be texted on a cellphone. And these are words that carry only emptiness on email. There is something to be said about a handwritten letter--there is power in every curve, every mistake, every squiggle. At times the pen seems literally heavy. At times, the handwriting is dainty. At times it can be deliberate and at times, wanton. Then there is the choice of paper or stationery. Or ink. Sometimes a scent. There was even a time when placing the stamp upside down meant something.
The wonder of the handwritten note is a treasure of communication and human interaction that is valuable...even priceless during these days of electronic messaging. It is a lost art that I wish would have a revival. But a serious revival. For the sake of the future, I sure hope so.
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