Love From a Distance
Ceira Pollastro
Originally published in The Buffalo News “My View” November 9, 2021 With technology today there are many ways we can connect with others, no matter if they are in another town, a different state, or another country. Today we can contact someone via email, a text message, or a simple phone call. If we have the technology to speak with anyone around the world, why would we do it by mail? Those who have proudly served this country had to use letters to stay in contact with their families back at home. For about four months, the only way I could contact my boyfriend was through handwritten letters. He wasn’t allowed to have his phone during basic training for the United States Marine Corps; he would only be allowed to contact everyone through letters. When he first informed me of this, I was both nervous and excited. The idea of sending letters to one another felt like I was in a romantic movie. Never once in my life had I thought I would be excited about receiving mail, considering that I once hated mail. Like most teens I didn’t want my parents to see my grades which arrived in the mail. That all changed when I received my first letter from my boyfriend. After the first week he left, I checked the mail every single day. Disappointment and sadness bubbled inside me as I had not received a letter. November 24th, 2020 was the day I discovered my first letter, nine days after he had left for basic. I rushed to grab the letter, and I threw myself onto the bed and opened it. The sound of paper shredding filled the air as I struggled to take the note out of the envelope. I began to stare at his handwriting for a few seconds, analyzing it. His handwriting was normally much sloppier than this. Before he left, I was never able to read his handwriting due to how fast he would write. It looked as if he took his time to write this without rushing through it. “Dear Cece,” he wrote my nickname at the top of the paper. Some of his words made me laugh, others made me cry. The whole left side of the paper was black and white pictures of young people who had served. Ironically, as I cried, I read the words “Please try not to cry as you read these.” I smiled slightly as I wiped my tears, trying to make sure that a drop of my salty tear wouldn’t land on the paper and ruin the pen ink. Once I finished the first letter, I would grab my notebook and a pen and instantly begin writing back. While my music still played, I began to fill the paper with words, going into detail about everything that had happened. I would be so caught up in writing that I wouldn’t even notice when I made it to the bottom of the page. After receiving my first letter, it became a habit of mine to check the mail every day. Around four in the afternoon, like clockwork I would wait at the front door for the mailman to arrive. Eventually it had become a daily routine for me, checking to see if I had received a letter. The anticipation built up, along with the hope that a letter would be there, ready for me to read. 82
