There was a time when I used to get real letters in our mail box. Of course, it was many years ago.
My dad used to write to me letters. He wrote them on several pages marking every page with a number. His handwriting was beautiful and bold. His letters were filled with a lot of advice. My mother used to write to me letters also. Her handwriting was rounded and a little bit childish.
I waited for their letters patiently counting days and weeks. Their letters traveled from one continent to another and it took a long time to get them. When I found them in our mail box I couldn’t wait to come home, open the envelope and read, read…
We live and breathe words. These letters helped me to adapt to my new life and my new country. They were honest with me and I was honest with them also. They taught me to be accepting. Accepting of everything. And never ever regret my choices, my mistakes and my failures.