Monday, March 2, 2009
"And none will hear the postman's knock
Without a quickening of the heart.
For who can bear to feel himself forgotten?"
I recently sent Mater a little package- some medals I collected while on an excursion to Mother Teresa's house in the heart of Calcutta.
Upon receiving the items this very morning, Mater assured me that she appreciated the gesture, and then proceeded to make a remark about the letter I had neglected to include.
"I don't know who it's from," she said, her tone as dry as dust, "but I enjoyed it very much."
To tell one truth, I sent the envelope in some haste, anxious for Mater to be in possession of it, and I had no time to consider the possible benefits of an epistle.
To tell another, Mater frequently dispatches parcels without a note or a name: the only way I establish the sender is by analysing the contents.
Teabags and sunhats and medicines and newspaper clippings are a particular signature of my mother's.
"Well," I said after a moment's consideration, "it was probably the very same as the letters you send me. I'm glad you enjoyed it."
"I get the message," I could hear Mater beaming over the telephone. "I know what it's like now. I'll be better in future."
And so it was that in a curious way, no letter was the loudest letter of all.
Posted by Phyllis Hunt McGowan at 12:21 PM