A boy called Steve I never saw again.

 I was cleaning out cupboards the other day, doing the good-old "Does this spark joy?" test on a whole pile of old stuff, and came across a letter from a boy called Steve. It was a strange friendship that blossomed out of nowhere and never seemed to be threatened by much. We were simply, friends.

He was done with school and moving overseas. To travel, to learn, to explore. He promised to write, and unlike most boys, he did.

In this particular letter, his words recalled my tearful goodbye after our last day at school together. How I had clung to him. (I don't remember that part, but these were his words so I may well have felt that way.) I don't remember being overly sad about him leaving now, but clearly, I was. He was two years older than me and heading off to adulthood while I stayed on to complete my high school education.

He wrote, "I held you and felt the reality hit me, life as I knew it, was over, and would never be the same again. I don't know why, but in that moment, I felt as though I would never see you again. It may be silly, but it felt that way."

His letters were good! So poetic. Words were magical. Penmanship exquisite. Yes, he wrote by hand. And posted the letters via a post office.

That young man somehow clung to me way past the time I supposedly clung to him. And yet, the letters were touching and beautiful. And the little blue airmail envelopes always evoked excitement in me. His travels took him to wonderful places. He still hadn't found real work but was earning little bits here and there. He signed them off, Yours, Steve. With a big flashy stripe below his name.

He never spoke of the girls, the wines, the friends. He spoke of the art, the landscapes, the buildings and the music. That was what had brought us together. We sang together; for many years. Choral music carving out pathways to the heavenlies was our common ground. Not much else, but what else is there when you share that?

We wrote, according to my box of memorabilia, for more than two years and then no more. A letter from his mother sent to my home address. With one last letter enclosed. Steve had died riding a motorcycle. He was home visiting his parents at the time. He had a letter to me on his desk. This time, I was almost finished with school. And I did sob. His two-year before prophecy had been realised, I never did see him again.

Steve wasn't a "massive" somebody in my life. I know that may not seem kind to say now, but when I remember high school I don't think of him first. He was a beautiful person, not uncomplicated, generally kind. Yet, nearly four decades later, when I think of highschool, I do still think of him. I think of how beautiful his voice was. I think of how kind he was to me, always. Ever the gentleman. I think of us laughing hysterically at someone else's expense. I think of those long, descriptive letters in a blue airmail envelope.

And today, choosing which stuff to chuck and which to keep, I chose to keep his letters. That small parcel of kindness and friendship, tied together with twine, in a box in uppermost bedroom cupboard. Re-reading that small paragraph made me wonder, if we properly took the time to listen, how many of us have missed that gentle nudging that this may be the last time we see a person. And then, (and I am not saying this is the case,) taken time to invest in leaving a beautiful memory in the space where that relationship once was.

Don't you wish we lived in a world where people still took time to tell you how they really felt about life, about the world, about you? Somehow with the lost of the postal service, we seem to have lost the art of honest, beautiful communication. 

Steve's missives may not have intentionally been that, but that is what they have become. I imagine that when I returned the mail, he felt somehow that we were still building that friendship bridge. Imagine a world where the way we lived, despite how healthy or strong or agile we were today, was in some way, building bridges stronger between us and those we care about.

Imagine a world with more beautiful letters between friends; where the blue airmail envelope made us feel that we had a friend listening, a friend worth taking the time to write to, by hand. Imagine the simplicity of friendship, enclosed in a warm hug and a closing line, "yours."



PS.
SG, you were a person in my life, who all these years later, still sparks joy. Thank you.