I am not one who judges, bashes or puts down anyone who has taken the time to sit down and write a letter. Some people simply don't enjoy writing. If they take the time and make the effort to put their thoughts on a piece of paper and mail it to me, I place a great deal of value on that.
We received a letter yesterday. This person has told me on many occasions, that they prefer talking on the phone over writing. We haven't talked on the phone for years. Communication has broken down.
We got together last year for a very emotional visit. One hour. Perhaps two. It started and ended there. Then (almost a year later) we received The Letter.
It was a Christmas Newsletter of sorts.
She wrote about her grandchildren, her great grandchildren and her children. By the time she worked her way to write about herself and her husband, my train of thought had wandered off the track and was lost in the bushes. So I fast forwarded to the personal note at the end.
"... Sorry that things can't be better. There's always hope ..."
I scanned through the letter again. She wrote of every single person in her family. Except my children. Her grandchildren.
I ran through all of the reasons 'why'. They weren't good enough.
I hurt for my children. I wondered what I could/should do to remedy the situation. I thought about the winding road that has brought our family to such an impasse ...
I cannot undo what has been done. I cannot change what 'is'. What can I do? I can open the (phone) lines of communication. I can. But I am still afraid. Afraid of propping that door ajar. That 'door' that makes me feel vulnerable.
Unresolved issues. They hit me like a ton of bricks when I run across them in my life. This is one of them.
'The Letter' reopened something in me that has been closed.