The path to the letterbox was worn.
Every day, sometimes multiple times, I would walk to the letterbox hoping to find a letter from my Mum and Dad.
I had known that Mum wrote every week but the postal system in Central Africa was not entirely dependable, and letters could take weeks or months to arrive. These letters had been a lifeline that I had first grasped when I was six years old. All these years later, I was still holding on to it.
But Life has disappointment as well as joy.
The disappointment as I turned away with a heavy heart when there was no longed-for letter.
The joy of seeing that Airmail letter with the Zaire stamp and my name written in the familiar, loved handwriting.
The joy of opening it and devouring the neatly written words filling the page.
Reassuring me that I was loved.
Mum and Dad have been gone for many years and now my daughter, Esther, is on the other side of the world, starting a new life in London.
My new “path to the letterbox” is in my hands – my phone.
And…
Every day, sometimes multiple times, I check hoping to find a post from my Esther.
Perhaps this “path” will not become “worn.”
What events of today will bring up the sorrow of yesterday?
We never know what will trigger our grief.
I am learning to be thankful for the triggers because they open wounds that need to be healed.