Archiving some of my favorite posts here on my new blog from my old one…originally posted on May 21, 2010.

At the risk of sounding incredibly boring or lame, I have to admit that one of my favorite things to do is go and get the mail. Although snail mail is kinda outdated, there is just something special about receiving a hand written letter or package in the mail.

When Evelyn was really itty bitty, and getting up super early, we got into the routine of taking very early morning walks. We’d be out there by 6am, cup of coffee in one hand, the other steering her stroller, eyes slowly adjusting to the direct rays of the waking sun. I’d purposely not get the mail the afternoon before so that it would leave us somewhere to walk and something to do at the crack of dawn the next morning. And so, it became our ritual. The mail became our “thing.” Now, as Evelyn is only months older in numbers, but so much older in what she can do and say, the mail still remains a part of our day, though, thankfully, not at 6 in the morning. Now we saunter out there around 4pm, stopping on the way to inspect every ant and flower and crack in the sidewalk. When she is done with whatever she is curiously exploring, she’ll look up at me, give me a little grin, and dart off in the other direction, imploring me to chase her with her little giggles, which get louder and louder as she can hear me getting closer and closer.

There are days when there is nothing in the mail box, there are others when there are only bills. But, on some days, I’ll peer into our tiny square box and find a letter, a card, a notice of a package received. On one particular day not too long ago, I reached for the mail and immediately recognized the handwriting addressed to me. It was written by none other than my dad. He had recently come across a poem, written by me, about him, from the second grade. Saving the original, as it had undoubtedly been a gift or father’s day surprise from me, he had photocopied it and sent it to me. This is what it said:

“Wednesday is like heaven to me

Being with my Dad

Going anywhere

Sharing a happy feeling

Being alone with him

Having a marvelous time

Feeling his love

Being my Dad.”

As I re-read the simple words of a second grader, that I wrote nearly 20 years ago, I can’t help but hope that Evelyn might feel towards me as I felt towards my Dad. As I feel towards my Dad. I can’t wait to read her words and look at her drawings, so that I can again see the world through the unfiltered eyes of a second grader. Perhaps our mail outings will make it into her poems, as my Wednesdays made it into mine.

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