Prose

Some of these days, I intend to send postcards to my son, to all my friends and acquaintances, to girlfriends past (no present), to whosoever matter- even one to my wife that she would take out lovingly from our letter box. Letter Box? Are there any, any more? The one in my house is pathetically hanging on the last nail, dirty with disuse, symbolic of the bygone eras when writing and receiving letters to and from dear ones was a craze. How I miss the romance of the wait for a postcard/inland/air-mail, the tidings they brought, the readings and re-readings and even reading out to others. An inland envelop is still there in my book shelf, yet to be impregnated with words, its blue color gone pale - again symbolic of a dying time! A conspiring technology bent on turning my world up side down - email, cellphone - has snatched away from people of my generation the simple pleasures of life - the golden romances that lay in waiting for a letter, hands groping in the letter box. I lament it's no more, I can't even remember when I received my last personal letter.
 
But some corner in my heart still waits for a letter. Will it ever come?