magic mail

Mom and Dad,

Remember when I used to love getting mail? I'd run out to the mailbox just as the mailman drove away. And I'd grab the haphazard stack and bring it in, fingers excitedly sifting through envelopes ... searching for anything addressed to me. Usually, it'd end up being mostly bills, a few generic mailings and occasionally, a personal item (or two) addressed to you all. Dad, you'd try to cheer me up, "Be glad you didn't get any mail, Susan. Bills aren't fun." But occasionally, on a red letter day, I'd get something -- a letter from Lisa, telling me tales of her family vacation in California, or a thank you note for a gift given at a birthday party. One day, I even got an autographed postcard from Mr. Rogers ... a kind answer to my request sent several weeks prior.

I hate to say it ... but I no longer enjoy getting mail. Funny, huh? These arbitrary markers of adulthood. In fact, I breathe a sigh of relief when there is nothing for me ... no bills to pay, no confusing offers to decipher, no sales to entice. As in many parts of adulthood, I've traded magical for practical.

But yesterday, as I was unexcitedly sifting through envelopes, I found one addressed to me in mom's familiar cursive. A card. Just because. And a note that said, "Remember how we were talking about that movie and you asked me if it was worth the money? Dad and I want to treat you to a couple of movies. Enjoy!" And $20 fell out. And for a moment, I was back again to those school lunches, where I'd find a note from you on the napkin in my lunch.

So, thank you. For adding a little magic back into the practical. For writing those notes. For sending that card. For making my lunch. You continue to teach me that magic is a choice, and that love makes life worth living.