Love Letters

Commiserating aloud during dinner about my lack of preparedness for my son’s departure to college two weeks hence, I speak of my plan to write him frequent letters.

I say, “I’ll have Papa send you a roll of stamps for your replies.” The boy’s grandfather buys these at a discount from businesses who over-bought their supply.

To which my son tells me all I need to do is put an extra stamp in the envelope with each letter and he’d mail me his response.

Better yet, he decides, I should include a self-addressed stamped envelope, as if somehow he’s been elevated to the role of literary agent dictating the terms of our relationship.

Inspired by his sudden promotion in the creative world, this recent first-time voter decides I might as well write the responses myself, leaving a few blanks to fill in as the mood struck him, like our letters back and forth were Mad Libs.

“Mad Libs.” Now there’s a term worth exploring in some future letter, but not here.

Now is when the boy’s mother chimes in—when she can catch her breath between guffaws—suggesting I skip the post office altogether and just write letters back and forth to myself.

“That’s it,” I decide. “Time to call our realtor and get a showing on the books for the apartment I plan to rent in this strange new existence where my son goes off to college and I write letters back and forth to myself.”

Oh, and I’m getting that Royal Enfield I’ve been eyeing and look forward to spending my time writing to all the people who love me.

“Shouldn’t take long,” comes the refrain from this tragic Greek chorus.

Wrong, people. It’s going to take forever.

How soon does the semester start?

##