When I open my packsack to get out my lunch goodies, a battered, blue post-it falls out. I read it for the fiftieth time, smile, and tuck it back into a pocket where I know I’ll find it tomorrow.
It’s only two words, a simple directive from my husband who makes my lunch for me every weekday morning. “Eat sauerkraut!” is all it says. It’s a reminder from two weeks ago, when we’d both forgotten to buy any during our weekly grocery trip. Since I work at a health food store, it’s pretty easy for me to pick up extra supplies anytime. So why won’t I throw the worn paper away, especially since it’s already done its job?
It’s become a talisman. It’s in my husband’s handwriting, which I rarely see these days, and it’s specifically for me!
He and I both have our own computers, more like two or three each ctually. Since we live together and talk with each other a good deal, there’s mostly no need for written communication. But occasionally, when we want to share a website or a piece of writing or some purchase confirmation, we’ll e-mail each other. Otherwise, we operate pretty much by spoken word.
When I’m far away and his post-it appears, it startles me with its vividness. When I recognize his characteristic ‘R’ and merry exclamation mark, instantly I hear his chuckling voice and feel his concern whether I have enough of the right stuff to eat. I’m connected to the moment he wrote it, when we were discussing my lunching options, and I find myself looking forward to returning home.
I adore technology, the internet and all the brave new things it brings. At work, I’m the first one to suggest using a computer to create reports, signage and social media communications. So I find myself a little embarrassed by my treasuring of this scrap of ancient technology. His handwritten message, only for me, seems a rare, precious proof of a moment of love.