Handwritten Letters

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Handwritten.”

Lovingly lined Ls and sensitively scrawled S’s. Curvy Cs and arching As.

By my hand, these letters form a straight, uniform line across a white fields of paper, are meticulously checked for proper legibility, and are marshaled into order for one purpose:

To become a force against Death.

I handwrite my Letters. It is a four hour process. Two hours invested into the rough draft, cut, paste, write, erase on a word document. Then another two hours handwriting what is on screen onto stationary.

In those four hours, I am reciting a magical incantation. A spell to suspend time. To create a space that would allow me to capture a lifetime found in a moment in the minutes it would take to reach the last sentence, the last period of that letter.

I ground the fluid subjectivity of remembrance into the more concrete, if flawed, form of words.

I form a third eye while hand writing these letters. Its gaze is focused on the receiver because while my spells do not require strands of their hair, they do require DNA: the comforting weight of their hand upon my shoulder becomes the pressure of my pen. Their lopsided smile wrought in moments of confused laughter transforms into my tilting Ts.

My hand writes to embody it all and transform these letters into spells of courage. Of fortitude. Of strength.

For them.

And for me, they are spells against death for even if I have passed on, am no longer of the physical world, a vestige of me can still be found in lovingly lined Ls and sensitively scrawled S’s.


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