I love mail. Parcels, letters and junk mail. Well, I don’t get junk mail anymore, but as a kid, it was like window-shopping. We loved to pretend that we could have anything we wanted and would circle all of the things and budget them, only to throw it in the bin when the next one came. Now that I earn my own money and can do what I want with it, one of my favourite things to do is order books online. I still go for trips to the bookstore, but with Covid being a thing, I don’t do that nearly as often, opting for delivery instead.

I love letters too. I write them to my sister, but she rarely writes back. She communicates to us via Facebook and Snapchat more often. But I don’t really have anyone to write to, and I’ve tried having a pen-pal but there’s a lot of uncertainty involved with that, along with my tentative nature when it comes to committing to anything long-term. I like letter sets and stamps and closing the envelope and dropping it off in the post box. And I love receiving them in the mailbox.

When I was little, I loved watching Bear in the Big Blue House, and though it was one of my favourite shows, I would always be disappointed when that red flag on the mailbox wasn’t up. Even back then, watching Blues Clues and other shows like What’s in the Box? where people opened mail and parcels was so exciting.

And so I wait for my late mail, with a mixture of disappointment and excitement. I wonder why I like it so much? Maybe because it’s like receiving presents? But what about the letters? Are they presents as well? Maybe it’s because it’s stationery, and I love stationery. Maybe it’s because it’s another form of writing?