Last night I found myself tidying my dresser, upon which lies a few innocent pieces of paper. Amongst them is some slightly faded artwork, a couple of wedding invitations (because that’s what happens when you’re 27!) and an old, unimpressive piece of lined paper. It’s this simple piece of paper that got me thinking. On it is penned a letter. A letter written to me by my younger brother, almost five years ago, as I left for the UK. This brother isn’t necessarily prone to articulating himself in a highly emotional or particularly expressive sense (he won’t mind me saying!) so this letter is special, for several reasons.
It’s special because I know the author and I know that the words are his . It has references to stupid in-jokes (usually Miranda Sings or Little House on the Prairie - don’t ask). The words he’s chosen verify his character. It’s special because of the relational assurance it contains - and because it feels like we are physically a long way from each other, relat...