Miss the letter

I suddenly had a strong desire to write a letter. I wanted to pick up my pen and pour my heart out on the paper as BEFORE, and then walk to the post office to send it to a friend far away. I put it aside for a moment. Nowadays, a phone call can reach all sides of the world, an email can travel far and wide in an instant, and a short message or wechat can fly across the horizon. Letter writing became redundant and backward, and redolent of pedantry and stubbornness. If my friends received my letter, they would be surprised and think I was seriously insane. By the count, I haven't written a letter for over ten years, and I haven't heard from anyone in all those years. Letters have existed in our lives for thousands of years. They once made us look forward to them, let us read them day and night, and let us look into each other's world. As computers and mobile phones have become our new favorites, letters have slipped away from us and faded from our memories.

When I was little, I always thought letters were a wonderful and weird toy. At that time, the postman often rode his bicycle to the primary school in his hometown. He took a thick stack of newspapers and letters from a green pouch and handed them to the teacher. Before class, the teacher came to the classroom with the textbook under his left armpit and the letter in both hands. He glanced at the envelope and said, "Zhang Jiabao, this is a letter from Beijing for your father to take home. This one is from Wang Qinye. Erpan, your home is the nearest to his home, drop him off after school; Shishan mountain is the western neighbor of the small shop. Who is closest to his home?" The letters, stamped in red, were handed out to us. We became little messengers, delivering them to recipients' homes after school. My neighbor Thin mother-in-law's son works in Guangzhou. I brought most of her son's letters home from school. Thin, illiterate granny sat on a wooden bench with expectant eyes and let me read the letter. I tore open the envelope and read it word for word. When I read, "I'm all right. "Her face lit up with joy. Once, WHEN I read "I had appendicitis last week and had surgery..." With a dull frown on her face, she said to herself, "How can this child have appendicitis? I don't know if it hurts." I continued reading, "After my operation, I made a pot of chicken soup, ate two eggs every day, and now I'm fine. Don't you worry about me." The lines on her brow began to thaw. I looked at her changing expression and thought that these letters were also toys, pleasing and sad, affecting people's happiness and sorrow.

When I was in junior high school, letters became a beautiful seed in my heart. At that time I was thirteen or fourteen years old, love learning love reading also love composition. I like to transcribe my compositions neatly on writing paper and then put them in envelopes and submit them to newspapers and magazines. The post office is in the town street, eight or nine miles from our school. After school I pedaled to the post office with my backpack, bought a stamp for a dollar, stuck it on the envelope, and slipped the letter into the shiny green mailbox. Soon, I read my own composition in the tofu cubes of newspapers or magazines. At this time, I always feel closer and closer to the palace of literature, and my dream of being a writer is becoming clearer and clearer. From then on, I thought it was a comfort to be read, a pleasure to be read, and the ultimate happiness to be understood. Whenever I think of the scene that I will contribute to the letter into the mailbox, I always feel that moment like a seed sown into my heart, dribs and DRBS of effort moisten, the seed will gradually sprout, smoke leaves, grow, and finally blossom out of the dream of small flowers.

As I sat thinking about my last letter, I realized that it was fourteen years ago. I wrote that letter to my classmate Wei Dong. Wei Dong and I were classmates in primary school. We were like peas and carrots in school. Later, we went to junior high school together. Although we were not assigned to the same class, we lived in the same dormitory. We are like brothers and sisters. He dropped out of middle school in his second year and went to Shanghai to learn car repair with his brother. He left the school that day I sent him to the school gate, looking at his emaciated figure gradually disappear in the distance shed tears. He wrote me a letter the first week after he arrived in Shanghai, saying that Shanghai was very big, beautiful and busy. As time went by, our correspondence became less and less. Once he wrote that he and his brother were going to move to Urumqi, Xinjiang. I haven't heard from him since then. I wrote him two letters, but received no reply.

In a hurry away time, some people and we will be far away, some things will be forgotten by us. We will lose some friends and meet some people. Those letters that once placed our affection and friendship, those letters that carry our glory and dream are like monuments full of inscriptions, standing on the road of our life.