Every night, almost invariably, my mom will leave me a note on my bathroom counter.
Little things – like thoughts, factoids, ads, that she shares with me.
She’s going to be eighty years old, and she’s becoming forgetful, but she always remembers to write me a little note, a small reminder, for me.
She keeps me updated.
It’s a such a sweet simple act – at times silly, surreal – but it always makes me smile.
Tonight, though, the realization hit me –
these little notes are my mom’s own version of Facebook.
I’m seeing it being created in real life, and in real time.
And, when she is gone, I will have this big collection of little thoughts, and I will be able to hold these paper posts in my hand, and know, that once, her hands touched them, and I will still have that physical connection to her.
Time taken, thought given, to write a note by hand, meant solely for one person.
Who does that these days?
Who still gets notes written by hand, from a loved one?
Why do I feel, somehow, that this is better?
marcwritesmoorewords 