These days find me waiting for the mail and some sixty years of correspondence
exchanged between my mother and her best friend, Francey. Francey called
me a few days ago and said, "I'm sending everything to you, including
all the pictures. You were such a cute baby."
"Thanks," I said.
Francey still writes my mother, but my mother has to respond with a telephone
call these days. Their friendship is as vital as ever, but the stream
of pages from my mother's once smoking typewriter has been stopped by
time and infirmity.
But the letters, Francey tells me, are intact and tell it all. And she
has decided to let me have the entirety of my own life back, recorded
as seen through the eyes of my mother. Apparently, there is little my
mother didn't say then, which proves not much has changed despite appearances
to the contrary.
I asked Francey to insure the box and I would pay the postage. She said,
"Honey, it's paper."
Not to me, I told her. It's pure gold.
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