Exhibit E: 1ra Glass. Okay, this is a rather meaningless snippet of a very brief note he sent me a couple of months ago. But I was delighted to receive it because I was genuinely interested to see what his handwriting looked like, which is basically the handwriting of an underachieving sixth-grader.

(The "swag" he sent included a handful of This American Life CDs, and a very charming embroidered patch depicting a squirrel on fire. Listen here for the backstory on the flaming squirrel; Act 2 is what you're after. It's worth the effort.)


Exhibit F: Owen. Maybe one way to predict the longievity of a romance is to gauge how passionate the letters get. My history suggests that the most meaningful relationships are often buoyed along by letters that aren't stereotypically passionate, but speak in a softer, less strained language.

Owen was my first real boyfriend, and he remains a good friend today. His letters are meaningful and loving, but not torrid. They felt like a real person was writing them; when I read them now they still give off a tangible kindness and warmth.

Owen also favored writing in pencil. His words came in neatly ordered paragraphs of carefully shaped letters. His observations about everyday life, his recounting of conversations with mutual friends are still pleasing to look back on today.

(I couldn't put my hands on my cache of old letters from Owen; I had to settle for a short, amusing note that I found mixed in with some others. In Owen's defense, when you read this bit of letter, bear in mind that it was written in 1994, before Suddenly Susan hit the airwaves...)



Exhibit G: Linford. Linford was the czar of correspondence. The wizard of writing. He taught me most of what I know about writing letters (and about writing in general, now that I think about it).

He has always been an important person to me. When I look back at his letters, I can see why. They are so soulful, so alive. Reading them is like sitting down by a crackling fire, or wrapping your chilled hands around a cup of hot coffee.

His instrument of choice was a fountain pen with soft black ink. I love the heady tumble of his handwriting. He wrote on thick cotton papers, on the backs of old photographs, along the edge of weathered blueprints. He would wrap a letter up with a stick of incense and when I opened the letter I would be enveloped in the intoxicating scent and his breathtaking words.

He was the person who showed me how personal and how precious letters can be. He showed me how the best ones call out to you as you read them, how the words take wing and lift you up, up, up, until you feel like you are somehow soaring.

His letters were so immediate, but of course, Linford the man was always at arm's length. We wrote for a couple of years, but we ceased writing a long time ago. I suppose I sensed the end coming when I wrote to him one day toward the end of our correspondence:

You're like the fellow I see each morning on the bus. Like a blurred figure in the edge of a black and white photo. A stranger in the background of some obscure art film, smoking your smug cloves with hands slender and pale as a saint's.

I miss Linford. The loss of him sometimes sneaks up on me and knocks me over; there are some things in this world that I think I was only meant to share with him.

But I do have a little of him here on paper, and I'm grateful. When I open the wooden box with the hinged lid, he is right here in my hands. He smells like frankincense.