Yesterday Kathleen spoke to me. Her words were clear and warm.

I was sitting in my art studio, no longer surrounded by my usual happy mess, but instead a genuine messy mess of ‘stuff’.  I somehow need to edit, clear, organize and get it down to a manageable few storage boxes before we head off on our road trip in May.

The studio was empty. All the usual people had come and gone.

I opened the bin marked archives. I saw the pile of cards from Dad’s funeral, read the air mail letters from my big sister on her trip in Europe, a letter from my grade seven friend who had moved north to Terrace where she told me how badly she wanted to run away from home. There were romantic cards from Kevin and some of my old report cards that mom had saved.

Another letter came from my sister Rhonda. She was in Winnipeg that year. She was probably fifteen or sixteen and I would have been eleven or twelve. Mom and Dad had sent her to live with my aunt and uncle. The hope was that a strict private Bible school, a new family and a new location would somehow help.

Rhonda’s letters told me how much she loved me, missed me and wished only the best for me. She signed her letters with endless x’s and o’s that ended with the words ‘to infinity’.

And then I opened up some printed pages dated from Toronto in January 1991.  I would have been 30 years old then and Kathleen 29…“Dearest Colleen,” she wrote. I heard her voice as clearly as if she was sitting beside me and squeezing my hand, “Thank you for being my friend,” she continued, and then, “I worry about you. Are you taking care of yourself?”

I read each sentence over, then once again, and then I sat in my chair with all the unboxed, un-put away, un-dealt-with chaos around me. My body felt too heavy to stand. I felt the deep weight of missing my friend. My friend with her secret winks and knowing looks, her crushing hugs and her understanding of everything in my life.

She would have known how horrible it felt to read a long-ago letter from my sister who I still love so much. The same sister that I now avoid. She would have hugged me when I told her about finding those letters from Rhonda. She would have said, “Oh pumpkin, it’s gonna be alright.” And just her sharing of that moment, without me having to explain any of the background would have made me feel better.

I realize, that to an outsider, my bin full of letters and papers looks like trash that should go straight to the recycling. But for me, these are treasures that are more valuable than anything I have ever bought. In this age of snapchat, where words disappear into the ether soon after they’re sent, and where Twitter feeds scroll like ticker tapes of snappy quotes and opinions, I am so grateful for real letters.

Words feel solid and real, permanently held on paper that I can touch and hold; words that skip past the brain and speak straight to the heart.

Whether the words are typed, written or printed in crayon, they are tangible and real reminders of voices from a far far distance. I realize too, that whether the senders or recipients are dead or alive, not one of those versions of ourselves exist any more. Instead, these letters are the distant echoes of who we once were.

In three more days Kathleen will have been dead for one year. It already feels like a lifetime has passed. But still, her voice is as clear as if she’s sitting right beside me.

It’s true Kathleen…it’s going to be alright. We’ll all make it somehow. But oh pumpkin, I really really miss you.